IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


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150     '"^ 

Si 

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6" 


2.5 
1 2.2 

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Sciences 
Corporation 


23  WIST  MAIN  STRUT 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)  873-4503 


m> 


L6> 


CIHM/ICMH 
Microfiche 


CIHM/ICMH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiques 


1 


vV 


1981 


Technical  and  Biblioaraphic  Notea/Notas  tachniquea  at  bibMographiquaa 


Tha  Inatituta  haa  attamptad  to  obtain  tha  baat 
original  copy  available  for  filming.  Featurea  of  thia 
copy  which  may  be  bibilngraphically  uniqua, 
which  may  alter  any  of  tha  imager  in  the 
reproduction,  or  which  may  algnif  icantly  change 
tha  uauai  method  of  filming,  are  checked  below. 


ryi    Coloured  covera/ 

IV  '    Couvarture  de  couleur 


r~~|   Covers  damaged/ 


D 


Couverture  endommag6a 

Covers  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Couverture  restaurAe  at/ou  pellicuKlie 


I      I   Cover  tivie  missing/ 


n 
n 

D 
D 


D 


Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 


I     I   Coloured  map»/ 


Cartas  gAographiquas  an  couleur 

Coloured  inic  (i.e  other  than  blue  or  black)/ 
Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bieue  ou  noire) 


Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations/ 
Planches  et/ou  illustrations  en  couleur 


Bound  with  other  material/ 
RailA  avac  d'sutres  documents 

Tight  binding  may  cauae  shadows  or  distortion 
along  interior  margin/ 

La  reliure  serr6e  peut  causer  de  I'ombre  ou  de  la 
diatortion  le  long  de  la  marge  intArieure 

Blank  leaves  added  during  restoration  may 
appear  within  the  text.  Whenever  possible,  these 
have  been  omitted  from  filming/ 
II  se  peut  que  certaines  pages  blanches  ajoutAes 
iors  d'une  restauration  apparaissant  dans  le  texte, 
mais,  lorsqua  cela  ttait  possible,  ces  pages  n'ont 
pas  6X6  filmies. 

Additional  comments:/ 
Commentaires  supplAmentaires: 


T^ 
to 


L'Institut  d  microfit.nA  le  meilleur  exemplaire 
qu'il  lul  a  6t6  poMlble  de  se  procurer.  Les  ditaiDs 
da  cet  exemplaire  qui  sont  peut-6tre  uniques  du 
point  de  vue  bibliographique,  qui  peuvent  modifier 
I'ne  image  reproduite,  ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une 
modification  dans  la  mdthode  normale  de  filmaga 
aont  indiqu6a  ci-deaaous. 


r~|   Coloured  pages/ 


D 


Pages  de  couleur 

Pages  damaged/ 
Pages  endommag^es 


□    Pages  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Pages  restaur^as  et/ou  peiliculdes 

H   Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 
Pages  d6colorAes,  tachaties  ou  piqutes 

□    Pages  detached/ 
Pages  d6tach^s 

□    Showthrough/ 
Transparence 

□    Quality  of  print  varies/ 
Quality  inigaie  de  i'impression 

□   Includes  supplementary  material/ 
Comprend  du  matAriei  supplAmantaira 

□    Only  edition  available/ 
Seule  Edition  diaponibla 


Tl 

P< 
o1 
fit 


Oi 
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th 
sii 

01 

fii 
sii 

OI 


Tl 

St 

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M 
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Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata 
slips,  tissues,  etc.,  have  been  refilmed  to 
ensure  the  best  possible  image/ 
Les  pages  totalement  ou  partiellement 
obscurcies  par  un  feuillet  d'errata,  une  pelure, 
etc.,  ont  6tA  filmAes  A  nouveau  de  fapon  A 
obtenir  la  meilleure  image  pussibie. 


This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ce  document  est  fiimi  au  taux  de  rMuction  indiquA  ci-dessous. 


10X 

14X 

18X 

22X 

28X 

30X 

/ 

] 


12X 


1«X 


aox 


24X 


28X 


32X 


liDs 

du 

difisr 

jne 

laga 


The  copy  filmed  here  has  been  reproduced  thanks 
to  the  generosity  of: 

National  Library  of  Canada 


The  images  appearing  here  are  the  best  quality 
possible  considering  the  cr  edition  and  legibility 
of  the  original  copy  and  in  keeping  with  the 
filming  contract  specifications. 


Original  copies  in  phntcd  paper  covers  are  filmed 
beginning  with  the  front  cover  and  ending  on 
the  last  page  with  a  prmted  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, or  the  back  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
other  original  copies  are  filmed  beginning  on  the 
first  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  iast  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustrated  impression. 


L'exemplaire  film6  fut  reproduit  grdce  A  la 
g6n6rosit6  de: 

BibliothdquA  nationale  du  Canada 


Les  images  suivantes  ont  6t6  reproduites  avac  le 
plus  grand  soin.  compte  tenu  de  la  condition  at 
de  la  nettetd  de  I'exeniplaire  film6,  et  en 
conformity  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmage. 

Les  exemplaires  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
papier  est  imprimis  sont  filmdn  en  commenpant 
par  le  premier  plat  et  en  termii^ant  soit  par  la 
dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration,  soit  par  le  second 
plat,  salon  le  cas.  Tous  les  autres  axemplaires 
originaux  sont  fiimds  en  commenpcnt  par  la 
premidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration  et  en  terminant  par 
la  dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  tulle 
empreinte. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  — ^>  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED "),  or  the  symbol  y  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  applies. 


Un  des  symboies  suivants  apparaitra  sur  la 
dernidre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  le  symbcle  — ►  signifie  "A  SUIVRE",  le 
symbole  V  signifie  "FIN". 


Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  tu  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
righc  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  dtre 
filmds  d  des  taux  de  reduction  diff6rents. 
Lorsque  le  decrement  est  trop  g^nnd  pour  dtre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  clich6,  il  est  filmd  d  partir 
de  Tangle  sup6rieur  gauche,  de  gauche  d  droite. 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  ndcessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  mdthode. 


rata 
> 


elure. 


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32X 


12  3 


1 


6 


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New  S 


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New  Sabbath  Library. 


RALPH  C.liCHORN 


Vol  1.  No.  ft    November.  1898. 
Monthly,  60  ceais  per  year. 


Single  Copy,  5  Cents. 


fr.,-r 


.'S'^' 


•I 


[Eniered  at  the  Post  Office  at  F.ltrin,  111.,  as  Second  Class  Mail  Mutter.  I 


r  {' 


The  New  Sabbath  Library. 

PRICE,  5  CENTS  PER  COPY.  POSTPAID  TO  ANY  ADDRESS. 

ffTO  rneot  the  jfrowlne  demuiul  for  pure  literature  at  popular  prices,  we  began  In  April.  1898.  the  issue  of  a 
lL    publlciitlon   entitled    the   New   Sabbath   Library.     The  success  of  these  issues  has  proved  to  be 
unprecedented,  and  they  have  attained  an  almost  world-wide  celebrity.     Although  -ippealing  particularly 
to  youn«  people,  they  will  interest  all  lovers  of  good  ,ind  whole.some  literature,  wheth-r  young  or  old. 

Kach  Lssue  of  the  New  Sabbath  Library  contains  a  complete  story,  most  of  them  written  expressly  for 
'I'he  books  are  of  unitorni  style  and  size  (  8'/j  X  8!/t ).  each  containing  96  large  pages. 


us  and  copyrighted. 


A  Devotee  and  a  Darling 

BT  BKCCA   MlDDl.BTON   SAMPSON. 

Fannie,  an  impulsive  girl  of  sixteen,  becomes  de- 
votedly attached  to  church  work  and  to  the  study  of  her 
Bible.  She  is  severely  tried  at  home,  and  at  last,  in  a 
manner  both  strange  and  startling,  her  eyes  are 
opened  to  see  her  own  mistaken  life.    ^^ 

The  Wrestler  of  Philippi 

I5y  Pannib  R.  Newberry. 

A  tale  of  the  times  of  tlie  early  followers  of  Jesus,  and 
how  they  lived  the  Christ-life  in  the  Hrst  century. 
This  book  portrays  the  times  of  the  early  Church. 

Its  Orionia)  setting,  description  of  quaint  customs, 
etc.,  give  it  a  peculiar  interest  and  attractiveness. 


Titus:  a  Comrade  of  the  Cross 

By  Florence  M.  KiNCiSLBY. 
The  publishers  of  this  book,  desiring  to  secure  a  life 
of  Christ  of  superior  merit,  offered  a  prize  of  Jl.tXX)  for 
the  best  manuscript  submitted.  The  committee  de- 
cided in  favor  of  "Titus."  It  was  an  immediate  suc- 
cess, over  one  mi* lion  copies  having  been  sold. 


Out  of  the  Triangle 

By  Mary  E.  Bamfobu. 
This  Is  a  story  of  the  days  of  persecution  of  Chris- 
tians under  the  Emperor  Septimius  Severus.  The 
scene  is  mainly  laid  in  Alexandiia  and  the  Libyan 
Desert.  The  book  relates  the  narrow  escapes  of  an 
Egyptian  lad  who  has  become  a  Christian. 

The  Days  of  Mohammed 

Hv  ANNA  May  WriiSON. 

Yusuf.  a  Persian  of  the  Are-worshiping  sect,  has  re- 
volted against  his  religion,  and  decides  to  leave  Persia 
in  search  of  Truth.  In  his  travels  he  meets  that  strang- 
est character  of  ancient  or  medieval  times,  Mohammed, 
'.rhe  scene  is  conilned  almost  entirely  to  Arabia. 

C  H  O  IN  ITA 

By  ANNiK  Makia  Barnes. 

The  gifted  author  of  this  book  has  here  produced  a 
Yivid  story  of  the  Mexican  Mines.  It  first  ap.jeared 
In  the  Young  Pkopt^e's  Weekly,  and  its  publication 
in  book  form  Is  In  response  to  numerous  requests  from 
it»  many  thousands  of  d  iltghted  readers. 


The  Prince  or  the  House  of  David 

By  Rbv.  J.  H.  Ingbaham. 

The  fame  jf  this  book  has  been  long  established,  and 
its  fascination  has  held  sway  over  multitudes  of  de- 
lighted readers.  The  scene  is  laid  in  Jerusalem,  during 
the  most  stirring  period  of  earth's  history.  This  edition 
has  been  revised  and  in  par*j8  rewritten. 


A  St 


ar  in  a  rnson 


Pi 


a  talk  op  canada. 

By  Anna  May  Wilson. 

The  central  figure  of  the  story  is  a  young  man  who, 
being  placed  in  the  penitentiary  on  circumstanili?,l 
evidence,  there  learns  to  understand  the  spirit  of 
^hri.'^t's  self -giving,  and  is  finally  set  free. 

Ten  Nights  in  a  Bar=Room 

By  T.  S.  Arthur. 

New  and  complete  edition  of  this  famous  work,  which 
has  acquired  a  world-wide  reputation  as  the  most, 
thrilling  and  powerfully  written  temperance  story  ever 
producfd.  The  book  comprises  96  large  pages,  with 
illustrations.    Printed  from  new  type  on  good  papt- r. 

Intra  Muros;  a  Dream  of  lledven 

By  Mrs.  Hbbbcca  K.  Springer. 

Author  of  "Beech wood,"  "Self,'  "Songs  by  the 
Sea,"  "Leon."  etc.  An  entertaining  book,  calculated 
to  ma '.te  heav  n  seem  nearer  and  more  real  to  us,  and 
death  far  less  gloomy.  This  remarkable  work  will  bring 
comfort  and  consolation  to  the  heart  of  every  reader. 

A   Double  Story 

By  Oborgb  macDonalo. 
This  beautiful  and  fascinating  story  is  one  of  the 
most  popular  ever  written  by  the  great  author  who 
won  the  title  of  "A  Lover  of  Children."  It  is  here 
presented  in  a  more  attractive  form  than  ever  before. 
Mr.  MacDonald's  writings  are  filled  with  helpful  lessons. 

The  Young  Ditch  Rider 

By  John  H.  Whttson. 

The  author  writes  after  a  protracted  experience  In  the 
W^est.  The  Young  Ditch  Rider  forms  a  rare  picture,  and 
the  portrayal  of  scenes  and  events  Is  a  fascinating  one. 
In  this  book  is  also  printed  Mr.  Whilson's  later  story, 
"  In  the  Land  of  the  Mlrase." 


«'! 


sink! 
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At 
dark 
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his  I 
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(  CONTINt^KD    ON    THIRD    PAGE    COVER  ) 


A 


Star  in  a  Prison; 

A  TALE  OF  CANADA. 
By  ANNA    MAY    WILSON.     . 


David  C  Cook  Publishing  Company,  Elgin,  111.,  a.id  36  Washington  Street,  C'licago. 


CHAPTER  I. 
BUNNY    HAS    AN    ADVENTURE. 

LL  through  the  day  the 
whip  of  the  west  wind  had 
been  laid  upon  the  face  of 
the  deep,  and  the  long 
waves  of  Lake  Ontario 
still  heaved  in  rebellion  at 
its  lash.  The  sky  above 
was  gray,  the  water  below 
was  leaden,  but,  from  a 
rift  of  cloud  in  the  west, 
a  red  gleam  shot  from  the 
sinking  sun  across  the  rolling  surface.  Di- 
rectly in  the  path  of  this  was  a  small  boat. 
At  one  end  of  the  craft  sat  a  man,  a  large 
dark  man,  with  a  bushy  beard,  and  black, 
black  eyes.  He  wore  the  oiled  coat  of  a 
fisherman  and  an  oiled-silk  sou'wester  was 
on  his  head.  He  was  in  no  state  of  good 
humor  this  evening.  Things  had  not  been 
going  well  lately  with. Fisherman  Jack,  a;id 
his  ruffled  temper  was  accustomed  to  vent- 
ing itself  upon  anything  within  reach. 

That  thing  at  present  was  a  small  boy, 
who  crouched  at  the  other  end  of  the  boat, 
with  the  rope  of  the  rudder  about  his 
body.  But  he  was  trembling  so  that  he 
could  scarcely  draw  upon  the  cord  suf- 
ficiently to  keep  the  craft  with  its  end  to  the 
billows.  This  lad  had  an  honest,  round  face, 
and  beautiful  blue  eyes.  His  hair  fell  over 
his    white    brow    in    a    tangle    of    waving 

Copyright,  18^  by  David  C. 


tresses,  and  his  broad,  boyish  chest  and 
straight  shoulders  gave  the  promise  of  a 
man  with  a  noble  physique.  He  was  a  very 
pleasing  child  to  look  upon.  Had  he  pos- 
sessed a  father  and  mother  he  would  have 
been  the  idol  of  their  eyes.  As  It  was,  he 
was  merely  a  trembling  little  fellow  without 
a  relative,  so  far  as  he  knew,  in  all  the  wide 
world.  He  knew  little  of  himself  save  that 
his  name  was  William  Hare,  and  that  he 
had  always  been  called  Bunny.  Ages  and 
ages  ago,  it  seemed  to  him,  he  had  drifted 
into  Fisherman  Jack's  cabin;  since  then  he 
had  helped  with  the  fishing  and  had  re- 
ceived for  his  wages  chiefly  abuse.  Indeed, 
lately  it  seemed  that  Jack  was  harder  to 
please  than  ever;  but  then,  he  had  been 
drinking  more  heavily  for  the  last  few 
months.  To-night  Bunny  had  made  some 
mistake  in  adjusting  the  nets.  Jack  had 
sworn  at  him,  and  now  was  glaring  at  him 
with  angry  eyes. 

"  See  here,  young  fellow,"  he  was  saying, 
"  I  have  put  up  with  you  just  as  long  as  I 
will.  You  do  not  earn  your  bread.  Then 
there  are  the  clothes  to  be  thought  of.  You 
earn  the  clothes  still  less.  I  want  you  no 
more.  You  will  leave  my  house  this  night, 
and  never  set  foot  In  it  again!" 

A  big  lump  came  into  Bunny's  throat. 
Where  should  he  go?  Jack's  cabin  was  all 
the  spot  he  knew  as  home,  and  he  did  not 
want  to  leave  it. 

"But,  Jack—"   he  faltered,  with  beating 
heart. 
Cook  Publis  hing  Company. 


4\m^ 


A   STAB   IN  A  PBI80N, 


"Not  a,  word  more!"  Interrupted  Jack. 
**Yo'»i  leave  me  tuls  night!  Now,  do  you 
understand?" 

When  Jack  spoke  In  that  tone,  Bunny 
knew  he  was  in  earnest.  Tears  rushed  to 
the  lad's  eyes,  ^nd  the  red  sunlight,  falling 
upon  them,  made  streaks  of  radiance  that 
almost  blinded  him.  He  lost  control  of  his 
rudder-rope,  and  the  boat  swerved  around 
broadside  to  the  waves.  Jack  spoke  angrily 
to  him  again,  and  the  boy  wished  they  were 
In,  so  that  he  might  run  away,  away,  away, 
where  he  would  never  hear  wicked  words 
and  see  dark  looks  again.  Poor  Bunny! 
Little  did  he  know  what  a  strange  life  was 
before  him,  or  that  this  night's  proceedings 
were  to  launch  him  into  a  career  such  as 
had  never  fallen  to  another  beside  himself. 
.  When  the  boat  touched  the  shore,  and  was 
drawn  up  on  the  beach.  Jack  strode  oflf  into 
the  cabin.  Bunny  dared  not  go.  He  sat 
down  beside  the  old  boat,  which  seemed  al- 
most like  a  friend,  laid  his  head  upon  it, 
and  shivered  with  the  chill  wind.  Tears 
came  again  to  his  eyes,  but  he  fought  them 
back  bravely.  Night  was  fast  falling.  The 
stars  began  to  come  out.  He  looked  up  at 
them,  and  wondered  if  God,  who,  he  thought, 
was  away  up  above  them,  could  look  down 
through  those  tiny,  bright  spots  and  see  the 
small  boy  shivering  beside  the  boat  on  the 
dark,  lonely  shore. 

"  I  haven't  any  folks  anywhere,"  he 
thought.  "  There  isn't  one  who  cares  for 
me!"  and  the  tears  rolled  down  hiy  cheeks. 
He  almost  wished  that  he  could  die.  Thea 
a  patter,  patter,  sounded  on  the  stony  beach 
behind  him.  A  glad  throb  shot  through 
Bunny's  heart,  for  he  knew  that  light  step. 
Before  he  could  turn  his  head,  a  warm  nose 
was  *M)ked  in  boside  his  face,  and  a  bushy 
tail  was  waving  about  in  the  air. 

"  Carlo!  Carlo!"  cried  the  boy,  clasping  his 
dog-friend  to  his  breast,  and  burying  his 
face  in  the  black,  curly  fur.  "You  care  for 
me,  doggie,  don't  you?  I  wonder  If  God 
sent  you  to  me?" 


Bunny  did  not  know  very  much  about  God. 
He  had  been,  a  few  times,  to  Sunday-school 
In  the  little  town  whose  lights  wr  e  now 
twinkling  a  short  distance  down  the  shore. 
He  had  picked  up  some  Ideas  there,  but 
these  had  set  him  thinking,  and,  with  the 
pure  heart  of  an  Innocent  child,  he  seized 
upon  the  fact  that  there  was  some  bond  be- 
tween him  and  God.  Now,  in  his  loneliness, 
the  boy's  heart  turned  to  him  as  naturally 
as  does  the  frightened  babe  to  Its.  mother. 

"  Yes,  doggie,"  he  went  on,  "  I  guesc  God 
sent  you  to  keep  me  company,  didn't  he? 
and  to  let  me  know  I  have  one  real  friend, 
anyway.  Because  you  love  me,  doggie, 
don't  you?"  And  the  dog  flourished  his  great 
tail  vigorously,  and  licked  the  boy's  cheek 
In  assent. 

"What  will  I  do  now,  old  boy?"  asked  the 
lad,  as  he  nestled  his  cold  fingers  against 
the  warm  neck  of  his  friend. 

Carlo  sat  down,  raised  his  ears  Inquir- 
ingly, and  looked  into  Bunny's  face  as 
though  he  did  not  fully  ur  derstand. 

"You  see,"  explained  the  boy,  "Jack  will 
not  let  me  go  home  any  more,  so  where  will 
I  go?" 

Carlo  gave  a  short  bark,  started  up,  and 
looked  at  Bunny  again  with  ears  erect,  as 
though  he  were  quite  ready  to  start  off  at 
once  on  a  pilgrimage  around  the  world  with 
his  young  friend. 

"If  I  could  only  take  you,  old  boy.  It 
wouldn't  be  so  lonely,"  went  on  Bunny. 
"We  could  sleep  together  in  the  green 
woods,  and  you  would  keep  me  warm  at 
nights,  and  you  could  hunt  chipmunks 
in  the  daytime.  But  then,"  he  added, 
"  what  would  I  give  you  to  eat?  Besides, 
you  belong  to  Jack." 

Again  he  let  nis  cheek  drop  down  on  the 
glossy  coat  It  was  quite  dark  no\. ,  but  the 
boy  was  not  afraid,  with  Carlo  by  him.  His 
eyes  grew  very  thoughtful  for  those  of  a 
ten-year-old  lad.  He  fixed  them  upon  a 
bright  streak  on  the  horizon,  across  the 
water,  and  resolutely  attempted  to  look  into 


maMmm- 


w^ 


A   STAR    IN  A   PRISON'. 


the  future.  lie  must  do  something,  ;;o 
somewhere.  Could  he  get  work  among  the 
farmers?  No,  the  haying  was  almost  on, 
and  he  was  not  strong  enough  for  that.  Then 


Carlo  lay  down  by  him  and  went  to  sleep. 
Bunny  could  not  sleep  for  excitement.  This 
seemed  a  terribly  venturesome  thing  that  he 
was  about  to  do.    Oh,   how  wearisome  the 


what  about  going  on  one  of  the  steamers  for     hours    were,    and    how    lonely!      He    had 


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S8*»--    •  ■           — «• 

— ;.:: 

Bunny  sat  down  bestJe  the  old  boat— See  page  2. 


awhile?  He  had  seen  boys  scrubbing  the 
decks  of  the  vessels  thot  called  at  the  town. 
Surely  he  could  do  that.  He  would  ask  the 
men  to  try  him.  He  would  strive  hard  to 
please  them.  Yes,  the  "  Nubian  "  would  be 
in  to-night,  at  one  o'clock.  He  would  go 
down  and  try.  At  any  rate  they  could  do 
no  worse  than  refuse  him. 


never  imagined  a  night  could  be  so  long. 
Surely  the  "  Nubian  "  could  not  be  coming  in 
this  time.  He  listened  to  the  plash  of  the 
water  on  the  beach,  and  watched  the  dark 
heaOI'  rd  about  which  the  down-going  ves- 
sels usually  came.  Tlie  moon  rose  and 
gleamed  through  ragged  clouds  upon  the 
broad  waters.    Buuuy  was  glad  to  see  her. 


A  STAR   IN  A   PRISON. 


but  she  seemed  very  cold  and  solitary.  He 
felt  even  more  lonely  than  before. 

^.t  last  the  far-off  throb,  throb  of  a 
steamer  sounded,  coming  nearer  and  nearer. 
Bunny  sat  up,  and  stared  with  all  his  might 
at  the  end  of  the  promontory  looming  up 
against  the  sky.  Yes,  there  came  a  vessel 
at  last,  Its  head-light  shining  through  the 
darkness  like  a  great,  glaring  eye.  It  was 
the  "  Nubian."  Bunny  knew  her  colors  very 
well. 

The  boy  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  the  dog, 
alert  in  an  instant,  sprang  up,  too,  with  ears 
erect  and  tail  wagging. 

"Carlo,  dear  old  fellow!"  said  the  boy, 
and  Immediately  two  great  paws  were 
placed  on  his  shoulders,  and  a  warm  tongue 
was  trying  to  lick  his  face.  Bunny  clasped 
his  arms  about  the  shaggy  neck,  and  kissed 
the  black  hearl. 

"  Now,  doggie,"  he  said,  with  an  ache  at 
his  heart,  and  a  lump  in  his  throat,  "  I  must 
go.    Go  home,  doggie." 

Carlo  looked  at  him  in  astonishment. 

"  Go  home.  Carlo,"  he  repeated,  with  a  sob 
In  his  voice.  And  the  dog  started  off  for  the 
cabin,  with  an  injured  air,  pausing,  no"7  and 
again,  to  glance  back  doubtfully  at  the  little 
figure  standing  alone  on  the  shore,  in  the 
moonlight. 

Not  until  his  four-footed  friend  had 
reached  the  doorstep  of  the  cabin  above,  did 
Bunny  move.  He  stood  watching  until  the 
dog  disappeared  in  the  shadow  of  the  house, 
then  he  started  off  at  a  run  towards  the 
town,  where  the  red  and  green  lights  about 
the  wharf  and  the  station  seemed  j  beckon 
him  on.  Carlo  watched  him  with  ears 
erect,  and  a  wondering  expression  on  his 
black  face.  What  process  of  reasoning  went 
through  his  doggish  brain,  it  would  be  hard 
to  state.  Certain  it  is  that  he  looked,  first 
at  the  retreating  boy,  then  at  the  cabin, 
then  at  the  boy  aga'n,  wondering  probably 
in  whic.i  direction  his  duty  lay,  and  that 
finally  he  set  off  after,  Bunny  with  a  swing- 
ing trot,  keeping  discreetly  at  some  distance 


behind,  yet  never  losing  sight  of  his  lonely 
little  friend. 

When  Bunny  reached  the  wharf,  the 
steamer  was  Just  in,  the  gangway  was 
thrown  out,  and  a  few  men  were  beglaning 
to  roll  some  casks  and  boxes  down  into  the 
vessel. 

Bunny  paused,  and  looked  timidly  about. 
His  heart  was  beating  so  that  he  could  al- 
most' hear  it.  In  the  meantime  Carlo  had 
crept  along  behind  him,  and  sat  down  in  the 
shadow.  Bunny  made  up  his  mind  to  ad- 
dress one  of  the  men. 

"  Please,  sir,"  he  said,  "  haven't  you  some 
work  I  can  doV" 

"  Surely,"  replied  the  man,  with  a  smile. 
"  Help  down  witl^  those  barrels." 

Poor  Bunny  looked  at  the  barrels,  and 
placed  his  hands  against  one,  but  ke  could 
not  move  it.    The  man  laughed. 

"  Out  of  a  job,  eh?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  I'd  — I'd  like  to  work  on  the  boat, 
if  there's  anything  I  can  do." 

The  man  smiled  again.  "  I  guess  you  are 
a  young  runaway,  aren't  you?" 

Bunny  looked  up  indignantly.  "  Indeed 
no,  sir;  I  haven't  any  home  to  run  from." 

"  Come,  now!  You're  only  foolin',"  was 
the  reply. 

Bunny  rubbed  his  eyes  hard  to  keep  back 
the  tears.  "  But  no,"  he  said  with  a  break 
in  his  voice,  "  Jack  told  me  I  must  never  go 
into  his  house  again.  I  —  I  haven't  any 
place  to  sleep  in!" 

A  man  who  had  been  standing  idly  near, 
watching  the  sailors,  now  turned  and  looked 
at  the  lad.  He  was  one  of  the  townspeople, 
and  knew  something  of  Jack  and  his  charge. 

"Why,  bless  me!"  said  he,  "if  it  isn't 
Fisherman  Jack's  boy!  So  he's  given  you  a 
walking-ticket  at  last,  eh?  Well,  you'll  not 
lose  much." 

The  boat's  mate  happened  to  be  standing 
near.  He  war  a  tall,  kind-hearted  man,  who 
had  children  of  his  own,  and  he  had  noticed 
the  pathetic  look  of  appeal  on  Bunny's 
face. 


A   STAR   IN  A   PRISON. 


"  Who  is  ne?"  he  asked,  with  a  nod 
towards  the  lad. 

"  A  poor  little  gaffer  who  hasn't  a  friend 
to  his  name!"  replied  the  town  man.  "  His 
father  and  mother  was  people  who  came 
out  from  England,  —  they  was  a  runaway 
match,  I  recicon;  leastways  they  had  nothing 
to  do  with  their  folks.  I  mind  well  when 
they  died.  People  didn't  do  right  with  the 
little  'un,  and  Fisherman  Jack  got  him 
someway.  If  ye've  a  job,  mate,  it'll  be  a 
kindness  to  animals  to  give  it  to  him.  Jack 
hasn't  been  over  -  kind  to  him,  I'll  be 
bound." 

"  Well,  then,  tumble  in,  lad,"  said  the  mate 
to  Bunny.  And  the  boy  waited  for  no  second 
invitation,  but  Immediately  ran  down  the 
gangway.  A  gleam  of  black  shot  across 
after  him.  It  was  Carlo,  who  lay  down  at 
Bunny's  feet,  and  looked  up  at  him  with 
flattened  ears,  and  the  most  apologetic  air 
imaginable. 

The  boy's  heart  gave  a  great  leap  of  joy. 
He  patted  the  dog  on  the  head.  "  Oh,  dog- 
gie, doggie,  you  must  go  home!"  said  he.  But 
Carlo  merely  looked  up  more  imploringly 
than  e"er,  and  thumped  his  tail  on  the  floor. 
Bunny  then  caught  him  by  the  paws  and 
tried  to  drag  him  out.  But  he  was  obstin- 
ate. He  braced  his  feet  on  the  floor  and 
refused  to  go,  and  the  kind-hearted  mate, 
looking  down  at  the  handsome,  glossy  crea- 
ture, said  indulgently:    "  Let  him  stay." 

"  He's  Jack's  dog,"  replied  the  boy.  But 
the  mate  had  gone  on,  and  the  gangway 
was  being  drawn  in,  so  there  was  nothing 
for  it  but  to  let  Carlo  remain.  Bunny  put 
his  hand  on  the  dog's  head,  feeling  that  now, 
indeed,  he  was  not  wholly  friendless.  He 
then  looked  about  for  some  place  to  sleep. 
There  was  a  cozy-looking  corner  in  among 
some  boxes.  Bunny  crept  into  it,  and  Carlo 
followed.  The  two  nestled  down  together. 
The  engine  throbbed,  the  vessel  swayed. 
The  motion  lulled  the  sleepy  lad  to  rest. 
His  long  lashes  drooped,  sounds  about  the 
vessel  seemed  to  drift  farther  and  farther 


away,    and    the    little    homeless    waif    wa' 
sound  asleep,  with  his  head  on  Carlo's  soft 
coat. 

The  men  were  rolling  the  casks  and  boxes 
about,  but  tiijit  did  not  bother  the  little 
sleeper.  He  was  all  unconscious  that,  not 
noticing  him  in  his  dark  corner,  the  men 
had  piled  the  boxes  before  and  above  him, 
so  that  he  could  not  get  out  at  all. 

He  was  awakened  by  a  gentle  whine. 
Carlo  was  poking  his  nose  down  beside  his 
face.  Bunny  rubbed  his  eyes  sleepily.  For 
a  moment  he  could  not  realize  where  he 
was.  Then  the  dull  throbbing  of  the 
machinery  recoiled  all  to  him,  and  he  started 
up.  He  found  himself  walled  in  by  bales 
and  trunks,  but  could  see,  through  the 
chinks,  that  it  was  broad  daylight. 

"I  guess  we're  in  a  trap  now.  Carlo,"  he 
said.  "They  didn't  know  we  were  in  here, 
did  they,  old  fellow?" 

Carlo  gave  an  approving  bark.  Bunny 
tried  to  move  the  boxes,  but  :}ould  not.  He 
did  not  like  to  call  out.  "We'll  wait,  old 
boy,"  he  said,  "  and  maybe  at  the  first  p'^rt 
they'll  be  moving  these  things." 

The  minutes  wore  on  —  ten,  twenty,  thirty. 
Every  moment  seemed  an  hour.  Besides, 
the  air  was  close.  Ages  seemed  to  go  by. 
Carlo  was  very  patient,  but  Bunny  was  get- 
ting hungry.  He  tried  again  to  push  the 
trunks  aside,  but  only  su'  needed  in  knock- 
ing down  a  shower  of  dust,  which  got  into 
his  eyes  and  throat.  He  was  seized  with  a 
fit  of  coughing.    Then  some  one  said: 

"  Who's  there?" 

Now,  over  an  hour  before,  upon  the  deck 
of  this  self -same  steamer,  an  oldish  man  and 
a  little  girl,  evidently  a  grandfather  and  his 
grandchild,  had  appeared.  They  had  break- 
fasted, and  were  now  pacing  up  and  down, 
enjoying  the  crisp  breeze  that  had  set 
the  waves  a-dancing.  The  little  girl  had 
curling  hair,  golden  as  a  tangle  of  embodied 
sunbeams,  and  her  broad,  white  hat  kept 
blowing  up  from  her  head,  so  that  her 
grandfather  had  to  stop  often  to  arrange 


A   STAB    IN  A   PRISON. 


It.  PreBently  It  went  off  completely,  over 
the  railiui;.  uud  out  on  the  blue  waves, 
where  It  bobbed  up  and  down  provoklugly, 
like  a  white  water  lily  Just  out  of  reach. 

The  little  girl  gave  a  scream.  The  old  man 
looked  helplessly  after  It. 

"  Never  mlud,  grandfather,"  said  the  child. 
"  There's  a  blue  hood  In  the  big  valise. 
We'll  go  down  below  and  hunt  It  up." 

"Just  so,  Just  so,  Gertrude."  said  the 
grandfather.  "  You'll  catch  your  death  of 
cold  if  you  have  nothing  on  your  head. 
Gome,  now,  and  we'll  find  it." 

They  went  below  and  began  searching 
among  the  bales  and  valises.  All  at  once 
they  heard  coughing  that  seemed  to  come 
from  the  bottom  of  the  pile. 

'•  Who's  there?"  called  the  grandfather 
twice.  At  the  second  call,  a  thin,  half- 
buried  voice  piped  out,  **  Bunny  Hare!" 

"  What  are  you  doing?" 

"  Chok-ing!" 

"  Ho,  ho!  You  are,  are  you!  Come,  sir,"  to 
one  of  the  boat  hands,  "  there's  a  bunny  in 
here  that  seems  to  have  too  close  a  hutch. 
Get  him  out,  will  you?" 

The  man  began  to  haul  the  bales  down, 
in  no  good  humor.  As  soon  as  an  opening 
presented  itself.  Bunny  crept  out,  with  dust 
on  his  nose,  and  his  face  red  with  coughing. 
The  man  caught  him  by  the  shoulder,  and 
gave  him  a  shake.  Carlo  leaped  out  with  a 
savage  growl,  and  the  man  let  go  his  hold. 

"  So,  you  little  varmint,  you  steal  a  ride, 
do  you?"  he  said. 

The  little  girl,  who  had  been  clinging  to 
her  grandfather's  hand,  now  stepped  for- 
ward. "  Please,  what  are  you  going  to  do 
with  him?"  she  asked. 

"  Just  trundle  him  oflP  with  the  rest  of  the 
baggage,  at  the  first  stopping-place,"  said 
the  boatman. 

"  Serve  him  right,  the  little  stowaway!" 
added  Gertrude's  grandfather,  drawing  her 
away. 

Just  then  the  tali  mate  came  up.  "Oh, 
you're  here,  are  you?"  he  said  good-humor- 


edly.  "This  is  no  stowaway,  sir,  but  a 
young  man  who  alms  at  being  captain 
some  day,  eh?  Well,  my  lad.  Just  straighten 
those  valises,  and  we'll  see  that  you  get 
some  breakfast." 

Bunny  sprang  to  work  with  alacrity. 

Meanwhile  the  girl  and  her  grandfather 
had  gone  on.  But  the  child  kept  looking 
back.  Presently  she  reached  up  and  whis- 
pered: 

"  Grandfather,  doesn't  he  look  like  our 
Wllhelm?" 

The  grandfather  turned  quickly  about,  and 
took  a  sham  look  at  Bunny.  "  I  believe  he 
does,"  replied  he.  Then  they  walked  on 
again. 

The  big  valise  was  found,  the  blue  hood 
was  tied  on,  and  they  went  again  on  deck. 

The  waves  were  dancing  and  sparkling 
more  merrily  than  ever,  but  little  Gertrude 
could  not  help  thinking  of  the  forlorn 
boy,  piling  valises  In  that  hot,  grimy  place 
below,  before  he  might  have  any  breakfast. 
After  a  time  she  climbed  up  on  the  arm  of 
her  grandfather's  chair,  put  her  arms  about 
his  neck,  and  gazed  out  over  the  blue  water, 
with  a  wistful  look  In  her  eyes. 

"  I  don't  believe  he  has  any  fri<^nds,  grand- 
father," she  said,  at  length. 

"Who,  child?" 

"That  little  boy  — Bunny  Hare.  What  a 
funny  name  he  has!" 

"  Like  enough  the  little  rogue  was  lying 
about  It." 

The  child's  eyes  looked  reprovingly  at  him. 
"Oh,  Grandpapa  Steinhoff!"  she  said,  "I 
don't  think  he's  a  bad  little  boy,  for  he  looks 
Just  like  Wllhelm." 

The  grandfather  coughed.  His  one  great 
passion  had  been  his  affection  for  his  two 
little  grandchildren,  and  one  of  them  had 
died  over  a  year  before.  Now  his  whole 
heart  was  given  to  the  little  orphan  who 
was  sitting  on  the  arm  of  his  chair.  He 
had  little  room  In  his  affections  for  anyone 
else.  His  whole  life  was  given  up  to  humor- 
ing  her  every  wish,  and  in  striving  to  make 


;:,?.-;:nr:?fJt.}'W!if!?ifi.'j"r 


iiiiwiwiiiiiiMiiifP..  ,  •» 


A   STAR   IN  A   PRTSOir. 


"paying"  investmeiitg  which  should  develop 
into  a  fortune  for  her.  But  he  and  the  child 
BiJll  mourned  over  Wilhelm,  and  spoke  of 
hlui.  ever  yet,  In  whispers. 

Aftf>r  a  pause,  Gertrude  said,  "  Grandpapa 
Stelnhoff?" 

"  Yes,  dear." 

'*  Couldn't  we  take  that  poor  little  boy  to 
Ottawa  with  us?  We'll  need  some  one  to 
look  after  the  fires,  the  way  John  used  to, 
you  know." 

Gertrude  now  had  her  face  bent  down 
against  her  grandfather's,  and  on-lookers 
smiled  to  see  the  pretty  pictuie— the  plead- 
ing, red  lips,  the  blue  hood,  and  the  gollen 
curls  escaping  from  it  to  mingle  with  the 
long,  gray-streaked  locks  of  the  man. 

"  Do  you  want  him  very  much,  Gertie?" 
he  said,  after  a  moment  of  silence. 

"  Yes,  grandpapa  mine." 

He  pulled  one  of  her  curls.  "What  a 
tease  you  are!"  he  said.  "Well,  run  away 
down,  then,  and  bring  him  up  till  I  talk  to 
him  for  a  while." 

She  was  off  like  a  gleam  of  sunshine,  and 
went  picking  her  way  daintily  through  the 
grimy  passages  below  to  the  place  where  she 
had  seen  Bunny.  He  had  finished  his  work, 
also  his  breakfast,  and  was  sitting  on  a  box, 
holding  his  knee  with  both  hands,  while 
Carlo  lay  beside  him  panting  contentedly. 
Bunny  was  feeling  very  much  alone  and  very 
timid.  He  thought  the  little  girl  coming 
toward  him  through  the  dirty,  smoky  pass- 
ages must  look  like  an  angel  —  but  then, 
angels  didn't  wear  blue  hoods.  At  any 
rate  she  seemed  as  one  from  a  sphere  differ- 
ent from  his,  and  as  she  paused  before  him, 
he  looked  up  at  her  with  a  half-wistful, 
half-pleading  face. 

"  Please,  Bunny  Hare,"  she  said,  "  my 
grandpapa  would  like  to  talk  to  you  for  a 
little  while." 

"To  me?"  Bunny  said,  in  astonishment. 

"Yes,"  she  replied  eagerly.  "And  maybe 
he'll  do  something  nice  for  you.  Come  now, 
please,  'cause  I  want  to  have  everything 


settled,"  she  added  with  a  gravely  Important 
air. 

He  arose  and  followed  her  up  the  stair 
and  throufrh  the  cabin,  which  he  thought 
must  be  the  most  beautiful  place  ever  any 
one  was  in.  Then  she  triumphnntly  led  him 
to  her  grandfather,  who  looked  at  him 
for  a  moment,  Hofteniug  n.ore  and  more  as 
the  resemblance  to  Wilhe'im  appeared  more 
evident. 

"What  is  your  name?'  he  asked. 

"  Bunny  Hare,  sir;  at  least,  William 
Hare,"  added  the  boy,  who  was  used  to  hav- 
ing his  nickname,  Bunny,  laughed  at. 

"  Wilhelm,  too,  aye!"  muttered  the  grand> 
father;  then  aloud,  he  asked:  "Where  are 
your  mother  and  father?" 

"  Dead,  sir,  ever  so  long  ago,"  replied  the 
boy. 

"  An  orphan,  as  our  Wilhelm  was,"  mut- 
tered the  man  again.  Then  he  asked, 
"What  are  you  doing  here?" 

Bunny  explained.  Gertrude  pleaded  for 
him,  and  the  result  was  that  the  boy  who 
"  looked  like  Wilhelm,"  was  taken  with  his 
new  friends  off  the  boat  and  on  to  a  rushing 
train  which  bore  the  three  swiftly  to  the 
capital.  He  was  henceforth  to  be,  not  the 
boy  who  should  "  take  care  of  the  fires,"  bat 
the  odopted  grai  -on  of  Hermann  Stelnhoff, 
and  to  be  known  i     Wilhelm  Stelnhoff. 

In  his  early  lift  his  man  with  whom 
Bunny  Hare  was  no.,  to  be  so  cJose'v  asso- 
ciated, had,  in  company  with  his  brother  ' 
Fritz,  drifted  about  Canada.  They  had  been 
in  all  sorts  of  obscure  and  unlikely  places; 
had  set  their  traps  In  the  fastnesses  of  the 
great  forests,  had  carried  on  a  system  of 
barter  with  the  Indians,  and  had  kept  stores 
for  that  purpose  on  the  very  confines  of 
civilization.  But  Fritz  had  at  last  settled 
down  in  the  capital,  and  now-  Hermann,  with 
his  little  Gertrude,  the  only  one  remaining 
of  his  family,  was  going  thither  also,  to 
spend  the  remainder  of  his  life  near  his 
brother. 

When  the  trio  reached  the  dtv  ihe>  wer*^ 


8 


A   STAR    IN  A   PRISON. 


welcomed  by  this  brother,  and,  with  his 
assistance,  a  cozy  home  was  soon  secured  in 
a  once  fashionable  quarter  of  Sandy  Hill. 
It  was  a  white  cottage,  set  In  the  midst  of 
a  broad,  rambling  garden  filled  with  tall 
trees  and  blossoming  shrubbery.  A  green 
-veranda,  hidden  beneath  clematis  and  Vir- 
ginia creeper,  ran  about  the  house,  and  a 
very  high  picket  fence  enclosed  the  grounds, 
giving  the  place  a  delightful  air  of  privacy 
and  home-like  seclusion. 

Bunny,  or,  as  he  was  now  called,  Wil- 
helm,  thought  the  place  was  the  most  beau- 
tiful that  he  had  ever  seen.  He  and  Ger- 
trude played  for  hours  every  day  in  that 
wonderful  garden,  and  many  a  passer-by 
paused  to  look  at  the  prevty  sight  — 
the  fairy  girl  with  the  long,  golden  curls, 
the  staunch  little  tad  dressed  in  sailor-blue, 
w^ith  his  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head,  and 
his  fair  waving  hair  blown  about  his  rosy 
face,  and  lastly,  the  great,  black  collie 
which  entered  into  their  fun  with  all  his 
heart. 

Occasionally  they  would  go  down  the  street 
on  little  shopping  expeditions,  and  Wllhelm 
would  scarcely  let  go  of  the  little  girl's  hand 
for  a  moment.  "  I  have  got  to  take  care  of 
her,  you  know,"  he  would  say  to  the  old 
ibhop-woman  who  weighed  out  their  candles 
for  them.  This  sense  of  having  some  one 
to  care  for  was  the  sweetest  change  of  all  to 
the  bo  J.  He 'felt  as  though  now  he  really 
had  "  folks  "  like  other  boys,  and  he  could 
scarcely  recognize  In  himself  the  little 
Bunny,  the  poor,  forlorn  waif  who  had  sat, 
all  homeless,  hugging  ills  dog,  that  weary 
night  on  the  lake  shore.  It  all  esemed 
like  a  dream  noAV,  yet  he  thought  of  those 
days  sometimes,  and  his  blue  eyes  would 
then  grow  very  solemn. 

One  day  he  was  lying  on  tlie  ground, 
leaning  on  his  elbows,  with  his  chin  In  his 
hands,  and  his  sal*  or  hat,  as  usual,  on  the 
back  of  his  head. 

"Gerth  he  sold,  "what  makes  you 
happy  all  the  time?" 


"Why,"  she  replied,  "'uts  ot  things. 
I've  got  ribbons,  and  pretty  dresses, 
and  this  garden  to  play  about  in,  and  you 
and  grandfather  to  love  me,  and  for  me  to 
love." 

"  Yes,"  returned  the  little  philosopher, 
"  when  people  love  you,  and  you  love  people, 
you  think  kind  thoughts,  don't  you,  and  that 
makes  you  happy?" 

"  'Course,"  assented  Gertrude  with  a  nod. 

"  Well,  then,  I  guess  poor  Jack  never 
had  anybody  to  care  for,"  said  the  boy, 
stroking  Cano  thoughtfully.  "  Because,  you 
know,  he  wasn't  very  happy." 

"  Well,  I'm  sure  he  might  have  cared  for 
you,"  replied  Gertrude,  indignantly. 

"Or  Carlo,"  nodde^i  Wllhelm,  while  the 
dog  raised  his  head  and  winked  approvingly. 
"  Gertrude,"  went  on  the  lad,  "  wouldn't  it 
be  very  strange  if  I  should  ever  meet  Jack 
again?" 

"  Very,"  said  the  child. 

"And  if  I  do,"  returned  he,  "I  will  try 
very  hard  to  care  for  him,  and  be  kind  to 
him." 

Yes,  little  fair-haired  boy,  lying  there  In 
the  grass,  you  are  yet  to  have  the  oppor- 
tunity of  making  good  your  words,  in  the 
midst  of  circumstances  more  strange  than 
you  would  ever  have  dreamed  of. 

In  the  meantime,  Wllhelm  and  Gertrude 
started  to  school.  Wllhelm  had  to  begin  in 
a  very  low  form  Indeed,  but  he  was  clever 
aad  willing,  and  soon  distanced  the  rest  of 
his  class-mates.  In  course  of  time  he  en- 
tered the  high-school,  and  grew  up,  a  tall, 
alert  youth,  a  favorite  alike  with  teachers 
and  students,  whether  in  the  school-room 
or  on  the  campus.  And,  during  all  thesa 
years,  the  same  quiet,  peaceful  life  went  on 
in  the  vine-covered  cottage.  If  a  shade  of 
anxiety  was  on  Hermann's  brow  no  one 
noticed  it.  He  spent  a  great  deal  of  his 
time  dabbling  at  experluitjnt^  in  physics 
and  chemistry,  for  he  was  a  scientist  of  no 
mean  order,  and  hoped  some  day,  to  em- 
body some  of  his  theories  In  an  invention 


mmfm 


*<PMIN« 


HPP 


mmmnmm 


A  STAB   IN  A  PRISON. 


which  would  electrify  the  world.  Hence,  he 
was  able  to  give  much  valuable  assistance 
to  Wilhelm,  whose  remarkable  proficiency 
In  all  such  branches  brought  him  into  high 
favor  with  the  old  man;  and  together  they 
spent  many  happy  hours  probing  the  mys- 
teries of  natural  law.  So.  with  apparent 
smoothness,  the  tide  of  their  life  ebbed  on. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE    COLPORTEUR.        ^ 

URING  all  this  time. 
Wilhelm  received 
very  little  direct 
teaching  about  God, 
for  Hermann  Stein- 
hoff  was  not  a 
Christian.  With  the 
naturally  religious 
element  which  had 
been  in  him  when 
but  a  little  child, 
Wilhelm  felt  God  in 
the .  green  trees,  In  the  warm  sunshine,  in 
the  blue  sky,  in  his  own  soul.  Sometimes 
he  wondered  about  him  still,  as  he  had  so 
long  ago,  yet  of  God  he  had  still  but  a  hazy 
conception,  as  of  some  mighty,  all-powerful 
being,  whose  great  white  throne  was  afar 
off  from  the  touch  of  man.  But  his  haart 
remained  strong,  loving  and  true,  and 
through  it  he  was  never,  perhaps,  very  far 
from  the  heavenly  portals. 

During  the  long  evenings,  after  school  was 
done,  Wilhelm  often  indulged  in  a  sort  of 
nature-worship.  He  would  then  usually 
hire  a  skitf  and  row  briskly  up  the  Rideau, 
rejoicing  in  the  calm  beauty  of  its  scenery. 
Sometimes  he  would  make  his  trip  serve 
two  purposes,  and  would  collect  plants  for 
botanizing. 

At  some  distance  from  the  city,  the  canal 
branched  out  Into  a  small  lake.  At  one  side 
of  this  lake  rac  a  high,  hard  road,  forming 


.1  ridge  between  the  lake  on  one  hand,  and  a 
deep,  SAvampy  gulch  on  the  other.  This  de- 
pression was  filled  with  marsh  grass  and 
weeds,  cedars  and  spruce  trees.  Hence,  the 
spot  was  enchanted  ground  to  Wilhelm,  for 
all  sorts  of  swamp  flowers  grew  there,  and 
birds  of  many  kinds  flew  among  the 
branches.  When  bent  on  study,  he  would 
fasten  his  boat  to  a  stone,  spring  across  the 
road,  and  lose  himself  for  hours  among  the 
birds,  bees,  bugs  and  we*eds. 

One  evening  he  sat  idly  tearing  apart  a 
common  ox-eye  daisy,  taking  out  each  little 
floret,  and  examining  it  through  a  magnify- 
ing-glass.  He  was  sitting  at  the  edge  of  the 
road  with  his  feet  almost  touching  the  calm 
water. 

A  light  step,  pausing  beside  him,  caused 
him  to  look  up.  A  man  was  standing  there, 
a  man  who  had  blue  eyes,  and  rather  long, 
light  brown  hair  that  escaped  in  rings  be- 
neath a  broad-brimmed  hat;  His  clothes 
were  neat,  though  threadbare,  and  he  car- 
ried a  satchel. 

Wilhelm's  eye  went  back,  with  a  sort  of 
fascination,  to  his  face.  It  was  sti'angely 
gentle  and  winning.  Wilhelm  had  a  vague 
impression  of  having  seen  it  before.  Then, 
before  his  mind  arose  one  of  the  pictures  in 
a  church  of  the  city,  a  representation  of 
"  that  disciple  whom  .Tesus  loved."  This 
man's  face  seemed  to  have  come  down  from 
the  canvas. 

"  You  have  quite  a  collection."  said  the 
stranger,  pointing  to  the  pile  of  weeds  and 
flowers  loosely  thrown  in  the  boat. 

"  Yes.  Do  you  know  anything  about  bot- 
any?" aske(i   Wilhelm, 

"  A  little.  Have  you  a  diflScult  specimen 
there?" 

Wilhelm  introduced  a  difficulty.  The  man 
sat  down,  and  looked  through  the  glass  at 
a  tiny  particle  of  plant-life  which  the  boy 
held  on  the  point  of  a  needle.  He  was  able 
to  explain  the  trouble  in  question,  and  Wil- 
helm's respect  for  this  threadbare  gentle- 
man arose  higher  than  before. 


10 


A  STAR   IN  A   PRISON. 


*'  Are  you  a  professor?"  he  asked. 

The  stranger  shook  his  head,  with  a  smile. 
"  My  college  course  was  never  finished,"  he 
said.  "I  was  forced  to  leave  before  I  was 
even  ready  to  teach  public  school.  I  worked 
then,  with  my  two  hands,  to  get  money  to 
put  me  through  for  my  final  examination; 
but  an  accident  put  that  to  a  stop." 

With  his  left  hand,  he  slowly  raised  his 
right  up.  It  was  limp  and  useless,  and  be- 
ginning to  grow  small  as  if  from  paralysis. 
Wllhelm  shuddered. 

"  I  cannot  write  with  my  left  hand,"  con- 
tinued the  stranger.  "  IJo  one  will  give  me 
work  that  can  be  done  with  It  in  other 
ways.  But  I  still  find  myself  able  to  do  a 
little  for  Jesus.    I  do  not  complain  now." 

"How  do  you  make  your  living?"  asked 
Wilhelm  with  sympathy. 

"  I  am  a  colporteur.  I  have  just  come  in 
from  a  tour  through  Quebec,  where  I  sold 
enough  Bibles  and  other  books  to  pay  my 
expenses.  Where  I  could  not  sell,  I  gave 
little  booklets  and  papers.  They  are  a  few 
grains  of  precious  seed  sown  by  the  way- 
side, you  see." 

Wilhelm  was  fumbling  through  his 
pockets.  "  I'm  sorry,"  he  said,  "  but  I 
haven't  a  cent  except  enough  to  pay  my 
boat-hire." 

"  Never  mind,"  said  the  colporteur,  with  a 
smile.  "  I  didn't  stop  to  ask  you  to  buy.  I 
wanted  to  talk  to  you  because  you  seemed 
so  much  Interested  in  one  of  God's  gifts." 

He  took  up  a  spike  of  crimson  cardinal- 
flower.  "  Have  you  ever  thought,"  he  said, 
"  how  good  God  is,  to  acatter  so  many  beau- 
tiful things  about  us?  Even  flower  tell? 
us  of  his  love.  So  do  the  tr  s,  the  water, 
the  sunsets." 

He  paused,  and  pointed  towards  the  lake 
before  them.  "  Is  not  that  glorious!"  he 
said. 

It  was  shining  like  a  sea  of  fire,  veiled  by 
a  purple  haze.  Across  it.  In  the  far  dis- 
tance, the  still  more  purple  mountains  arose 
like  a  low  cloud  above  the  horizon;  and, 


from  their  crest,  the  sun  was  taking  his 
last  look  at  the  evening  world.  A  crimson 
gleam,  broken  into  ten  thousand  rubies, 
stretched  along  the  surface  of  the  water  to 
the  flower-laden  boat  at  their  feet. 

"  Yes,  God  Is  very  good,"  mused  the 
stranger.  *'  Were  one  confined  In  a  gloomy 
dungeon  for  ten  years,  one  might  form  soma 
estimate  of  his  great  blessing  in  giving  us 
such  a  beautiful  world." 

"  Yet  many,"  said  Wilhelm,  "  have  been 
in  just  such  dungeons  for  years,  through  no 
fault  of  their  own,  like  that  young  Earl  of 
March  who  was  put  in  just  because  he  had 
a  claim  to  the  throne  of  England.  In  what 
way  did  God  show  his  goodness  to  them?" 

The  colporteur  did  not  speak  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  his  face  was  gravely  thoughtful. 

"  We  are  not  prepared  to  say,"  replied  he, 
"that  such  people  did  not  learn  glorious 
lessons,  even  in  prison.  God  may  have  ap- 
peared to  them  so  clearly  there  that  they 
were  enabled  to  rise  above  their  environ- 
ment, and  soar  to  heights  which  they  never 
could  have  attained  otherwise.  You  know 
Paul  suffered  Imprisonment,  persecution  of 
all  kinds,  such  as  few  have  been  called  upon 
to  endure,  yet  he  said,  '  Our  light  aflaictlon, 
which  Is  but  for  a  moment,  worketh  for  us  a 
far  more  exceeding  and  eternal  weight  of 
glory.'  He  spoke  well.  In  the  develop- 
ment of  character  this  'light  afllictlon,'  In 
some  cases.  Is  mighty  for  good.  The  much 
tried  man  Is  often  the  strong  man." 

"  Is  that  quotation  from  the  Bible?"  asked 
the  boy. 

The  colporteur  raised  his  brows  In  surprise 
at  the  question.  "  W^hy,  yes,*  he  answered; 
"do  you  not  read  the  Bible?" 

"  Not  very  often,"  replied  the  boy,  looking 
away. 

"  Have  you  one?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"Then  I  am  sure  you  could  find  many 
beautiful  things  there,  If  you  choose  to  look; 
things  beautiful,  indeed,  because  they  touch 
the    heart -life,    and    beckon    us    ever    to 


mmm 


A   STAR    IN  A   PRISON. 


U 


heights  beyond.    It  seems  to  me  that  we  can     yield  than  Is  the  man  who  has  Jesus,  at  all 

never  understand  the  depths  of  love  until    times,  with  him.    It  is  a  far  more  difficult 

we  read  It  in  the  life  of  Jesus,  and  experi-     matter  to  sin  if  one  is  even  a  little  in  touch 

ence    something    of    the    feelings    through     ^ith  Jesus." 

which    he   has   passed  — 

nay,    through    which    he 

is  passing,  day  by  day, 

in  the  trials  of  his  loved 

ones." 

The  boy  sat  thinking 
for  a  long  time.  No  one 
had  ever  spoken  to  him 
in  this  way  before.  The 
sun  had  gone  down,  and 
the  still  water  was  grow- 
ing dark.  Over  its  calm 
surface  a  canoe,  bearing 
men  in  white  boating 
shirts,  sped  silently  past. 
A  whip-poor-will  began 
to  sing  in  a  thicket,  and 
its  sad,  weird  cry 
aroused  Wilhelm  to  the 
consciousness  that  it  was 
almost  night.  He  arose 
and  untied  the  boat. 

"  Come,"  he  said  to  the 
colporteur,  "get  in,  and 
I  will  row  you  down  to 
the  city." 

In  a  few  minutes  more 
they,  too,  were  speeding 
over  the  surface,  now 
smooth  as  a  mirror,  and 
the  soft  plash  of  the  oars 
fell  like  music  on  the 
still  air. 

The      colporteur      re- 
sumed the  conversation. 
"  I    do    not    think    any 
man  who  does  not  know  Jesus  can  be  truly 
happy.    He  loses  much  Joy  and  rest  in  the 
present,  and  has  no  hope  for  the  future.    He 
is  more  likely  to  fall  into  sin  and  thus  incur 
its  painful  consequences.     He  may  live  a 
strictly   moral   life,   yet   if   strong   tempta- 
tion offers  Itself,  he  is  much  more  liable  to 


"Do  you  know  anything  about  botany?"  asked  Wilhelm.— See  page  9. 


"  I  do  not  exactly  understand  what  you 
mean  by  being  in  touch  with  Jesus,"  re- 
turned che  boy. 

"  Perhaps  I  can  explain  it  in  this  way." 
replied  the  colporteur.  "  I  am  almost  alone 
In  tlds  wide  world.  I  have  no  parents,  no 
sisters,  no  brothers;  all  have  gone  to  the 


mmmmm 


12 


A  STAB   IN  A  PRISON. 


life  beyond  the  grave,  except  perhaps  one, 
and  he  is  lost  to  me."  He  paused,  and  when 
he  spoke  again  his  voice  had  a  lower,  sad- 
der cadence.  "I  once  had  a  brother,"  he 
said,  "  but  he  left  us,  and  never  even  wrote 
to  us  more.  I  came  to  the  New  World  to 
search  for  him,  but  the  land  is  wide,  and 
the  body  is  feeble.  I  cannot  find  him;  I 
fear  he,  too,  Is  dead." 

Again  he  paused.  Ah,  had  Wilhelm  then 
spol£en,  had  he  told  even  his  name!  But  he 
remained  silent,  and  the  word  was  not  yet 
said  which  must  have  changed  the  lives  of 
both.  The  colporteur  turned  to  him  with  a 
smile  whose  sweetness  shone  even  through 
the  dusliy  twilight. 

"  But,  dear  lad,"  he  said,  "  do  you  thinli 
I  am  really  alone,  that  I  am  altogether 
lonely?  Ah,  no!  Jesus  walks  with  me,  sits 
with  me.  I  know  he  Is  there,  and  I  can 
commune  with  him  ali  the  way.  His  pres- 
ence makes  me  feel  as  though  all  the  world 
is  my  family,  for  he  loves  all  people  —  and 
can  I  help  loving  them,  too?" 

Wilhelm  was  listening  with  the  deepest 
Interest.  "  Does  the  Bible  say  that  Jesus 
can  be  with  people  in  this  way?"  he  asked. 

"Jesus  himself  has  told  us  so,"  returned 
the  colporteur  quietly.  "  Before  he  died  on 
the  cross  he  promised  that  the  Comforter 
should  come  to  be  with  his  followers.  That 
meant  that  he  himself  should  come  in  a  ne  ,v 
form,  as  the  Holy  Spirit,  and  so  he  is  here 
now,  to  come  between  us  and  sin,  if  we  will, 
to  comfort  and  help  us  all  the  way." 

"Do  all  Christians  feel  this  way  about 
these  things?"  asked  the  lad. 

The  stranger  shook  his  head  sadly. 

"  None  of  us  feel  it  as  we  should,"  he  re- 
plied. "  We  are  too  easily  drawn  a^  ay  from 
him.  I  tell  you,"  —  and  he  leaned  forward 
in  his  earnestness  —  '•  if  the  personal  com- 
panionship of  Jesus  were  realized  to  its 
fullest  extent  by  Christians,  the  whole 
world  would  be  revolutionized!  Oh,  what 
suffering,  what  agony,  would  be  spared  peo- 
ple If  only  they  kept  close  enough  to  him!" 


Wilhelm  said  nothing,  and  the  colporteur 
resumed:  "  My  lad,  this  earth  Is  beautiful, 
yet  In  it  are  those  to  whom  the  breeze  Is  a 
sob,  the  fairest  green  field  a  desert,  the 
brightest  flowers  a  moc'  ary.  These  people 
might  have  a  heaven  on  earth  —  they  choose 
to  find  a  hell  upon  It!" 

Wilhelm  stopped  rowing.  "  I  do  not  un- 
derstand you,"  he  said. 

The  colporteur's  tone  was  very  tender,  and 
the  low,  half-whispered  words  came  with 
great  impressiveness  upon  Wilhelm's  soul. 

••  From  God  comes  all  true  joy,"  he  said. 
"  God  has  told  us  he  will  dwell  within  us  if 
we  will  give  him  room.  According  as  God 
fills  all  our  heart,  according  as  perfect  love 
fills  it  — for  God  is  love  — are  we  truly 
happy.  All  our  noblest  and  best  impulses 
come  from  tV.n  divinity  that  is  within  us. 
If  we  act  ever  according  to  them  we  are 
oiu'  best  selves,  we  live  the  divine  part 
of  us.  Were  we  to  be  wholly  one  witli 
God,  perfect  In  love,  we  might  be  in  heaven 
here." 

The  colporteur's  tones  had  grown  ever 
more  thrilling,  and  his  eye  were  glowing 
with  the  depth  of  his  emotion.  Through 
Wilhelm's  heart,  as  he  listened,  had  come  a 
thrill  like  that  caused  by  a  strain  of  sub- 
limest  music.  He  leaned  toward  the  col- 
porteur with  a  face  full  of  entreaty. 

"  Where  is  God?"  he  asked. 

It  was  the  old  question  that  has  silently 
risen  from  every  heart  since  earth  began. 
The  colporteur  looked  into  his  face  with  ten- 
der compassion. 

"Why,  here,"  he  said  In  a  voice  of  quiet 
confidence;  and  Wilhelm  started  as  though 
the  bright  wing  of  an  angel  had  shot  before 
him. 

"  Where?"  he  asked  again. 

"Al)out  us— in  us,"  returned  the  colporteur, 
in  the  same  voice  of  calm  assurance. 

"Then  where  Is  heaven?"  asked  the  boy. 

"  Where  God  is,"  replied  the  quiet  voice. 
"  Could  we  but  discern  God  fully,  we  would 
realize  the  bliss  of  heaven  here  and  now. 


■WWPW"^f" 


wmmmmmi^mmi^ 


A  STAB   IN  A  PRISON. 


13 


When  Jesus  spoke  of  the  kingdom  of 
heaven,  I  think  he  meant  the  life  of  the 
spirit.  He  spoke  of  it,  you  remember,  as 
being  within  us,  or  above  us.  And  is  not 
the  spirit-life  truly  the  life  above  — above 
the  things  of  earth?" 

"  Then  where  is  the  heaven  to  which  the 
souls  of  the  good  go  after  death?"  asked 
the  boy  again.  His  soul-life  was  stirring, 
and  these  questions  were  its  cravings  cry- 
ing, "Give  me  meat!    Give  me  drink!" 

"  I  do  not  know,"  returned  the  colporteur, 
quietly.  "  But  of  this  I  am  assured:  it  will 
be  the  state  of  seeing  God  — with  no  film 
between.  The  souls  of  the  good  cast  off, 
with  their  bodies,  every  cobweb  of  earth, 
and  see,  then,  face  to  face;  know,  then, 
heart  to  heart." 

Wilhelm  began  rowing  again.  For  some 
time  he  went  on  in  silence.  Thp  lights  of 
the  city  began  to  gleam  afar  off,  and  to 
send  glimmering  streaks  across  the  black 
water  of  the  canal.  The  colporteur  had 
been  leaning  back  in  the  end  of  the  boat, 
with  his  hand  over  the  edge,  plashing  In  the 
water.  He  suddenly  leaned  forward  and 
said,  earnestly: 

"What  are  you  thinking  about,  dear 
lad?" 

**I  was  just  thinking  that  my  heaven  is 
pretty  far  off,  I  guess.  I'm  not  very  good, 
but  I'd  like  to  be  better.  All  the  boys  feel 
so,  too,  I  think,  only  they  won't  give  in." 

The  stranger's  face  grew  strangely  bright, 
could  Wilhelm  have  seen  it  through  the 
gloom. 

"  My  dear  boy,  this  feeling  is  but  Jesus 
himself  calling  you.  Do  not  resist  him. 
Draw  closer  to  him." 

"Why?  He  doesn't  care  about  me,  does 
he?" 

"  He  loves  you  —  loves  you.  God  Is  love. 
He  wants  you  to  be  his  because  he  loves 
you.  It  pierces  him  to  the  heart  to  know 
that  you  are  not  loving  him." 

Wilhelm  pondered.  "How  do  you  know 
this?"  be  asked. 


"  Because  he  died  to  show  us  his  love. 
His  feeling  for  us  now  is  just  the  same  as 
then.  When  one  will  die  for  you  his  love 
must  be  perfect." 

Wilhelm  rested  on  his  oars  a  moment. 
"  Well,  it's  a  fact."  he  said  at  length,  "  that 
a  fellow  would  be  pretty  mean  who  wouldn't 
think  a  little  of  him  after  that." 

They  were  a  boy's  words,  but  there  was 
reverence  in  them. 

On  they  went  again.  They  were  nearing 
the  boat-house.  The  colporteur  almost  whis- 
pered: 

"Suppose  you  talk  with  Jesus  a  little 
while  to-night  about  this." 

Wilhelm  made  no  reply.  They  got  out  of 
the  boat,  and  parted,  by  the  flickering  light 
of  a  torch,  with  a  warm  band-clasp. 

Wilhelm  was  set  a-thinking.  That  night 
he  did  pray  for  a  realization  of  God,  for 
the  companionship  of  Jesus,  and  he  felt 
happier  than  ever  before.  He  dropped 
asleep  wondering  if  he  should  ever  again 
meet  the  gentle  colporteur,  and  regretting 
that  he  had  not  even  learned  his  name.  He 
knew,  however,  that  he  should  be  able  to 
recognize  that  saint-like  face  anywhere  and 
under  any  circumstances. 


CHAPTER  III. 

A  CHANGE   IN  WILHELM'S 
LIFE. 

HE  years  passed  on.  Time 
touched  with  gentle  fingers 
the  family  In  the  white 
cottage,  sprinkling  snow 
upon  the  hair  of  the  old 
man,  coaxing  Gertrude 
Into  the  full-blown 
flower  which  the  sweet 
'  bud  of  her  childhood  had 
promised,  and  ushering  Wilhelm  into  the 
buoyant  and  hopeful  period  of  early  man- 
hood.   The  young  people  were  serene  In  the 


14 


A   8  TAB   IN  A  PRISON. 


apparent  calmness  of  their  lives,  and,  If 
Hermann  vas  less  confident,  he  kept  his 
doubts  to  himself  until  he  felt  that  he  could 
do  so  no  longer-  The  fact  was  that  he  had 
been  losing  money  lately.  Still,  as  of  old, 
his  chief  aim  in  life  was  to  leave  to  Ger- 
trude such  a  fortune  as  would  be  likely  to 
keep  her  from  ever  feeling  the  bitterness  of 
want.  With  this  in  view  he  had  entered 
Into  speculations  which  were  proving  un- 
successful. This  was  a  terrible  disappoint- 
ment. Day  by  day  he  pondered  ca  his  less- 
ening hoard,  and  considered  means  of  reduc- 
ing his  expenditures.  The  cost  of  Wilhelm's 
education  was  the  heaviest  drain,  yet  for  a 
long  time  Hermann  shrank  from  the  thought 
of  taking  him  from  school.  Sometimes  he 
would  look  at  the  tv;o  young  people,  as  they 
sat  talking  together,  and  say  to  himself. 
"  If  I  thought  they  would  ever  marry,  I 
wouldn't  do  it.  He  should  have  his  college 
course.  But  I  cannot  depend  upon  that. 
One  can  never  tell  what  a  woman  will  do;" 
and  he  wruld  turn  away  with  a  perplexed 
air,  mutiering,  "  Gertie  ought  to  have  all 
that  is  left  of  it." 

At  last,  one  evening,  the  old  man  sum- 
moned Wllhelm  to  his  private  room,  his  lit- 
tle laboratory  filled  with  bottles,  mortars, 
half-finished  machines,  and  chemical  appli- 
ances of  all  sorts.  He  was  sitting  in  his 
great  arm-chair  by  the  window,  and  as  soon 
as  Wilhelm  entered  he  saw  that  there  was 
something  on  the  old  man's  mind.  The 
black  skull  cap,  which  he  nearly  always 
wore,  was  awry,  and  the  pale  light  of  even- 
ing, creeping  through  the  casement,  cast  an 
ashen  hue  upon  his  face,  which  heightened 
the  despondent  cast  of  his  countenance.  He 
motioned  the  young  man  to  a  chair. 

Wilhelm  sat  down,  and  wondered  what 
had  come  amiss. 

"Wilhelm,"  said  the  old  man.  coming  at 
once  to  the  point  at  issue,  "  would  you  be 
greatly  disappointed  if  you  were  obliged  to 
leave  school?" 

WUhelus  looked  up  sharply,    "x  am  quite 


willing  to  leave  at  once  If  It  la  necessary," 
he  said,  quietly. 

The  old  man  tapped  the  arm  of  his  chair 
restlessly  and  looked  out  over  the  tops  of  the 
garden  trees.  "  I— I— the  fact  Is,"  he  said  at 
length,  "  I  have  been  losing  rather  heavily 
lately.  Some  speculations  that  I  was  In- 
duced to  enter  upon  —  the  more  foolish  I  — 
have  failed,  utterly  failed." 

Wilhelm  understood  now  the  worried, 
Irritable  air  which  he  had  noticed  upon  one 
or  two  occasions  lately.   In  the  old  man's 

# 

actions. 

"  Aye,  Wilhelm,"  continued  he,  In  a  voice 
low  and  plaintive,  rather  than  angry, 
"there  are  sharks,  vultures— veritable  wolves 
in  sheep's  clothing  in  this  city!  Aye,"  he 
continued,  as  if  speaking  to  himself,  "and 
they  got  around  poor  old  Hermann  with 
their  blandishments  and  their  fine  words. 
They  said  to  him,  '  Hermann,  will  you  not 
double  your  money?'  and  poor,  simple  Her- 
mann fell  into  the  trap." 

Wilhelm  took  the  old  man's  hand  into  his 
strong,  warm  grasp.  "  Grandfather,"  he 
said,  "  I  am  very  sorry." 

Hermann  went  on  without  looking  at  him. 
"  Aye,  aye,  Hermann  fell  into  the  trap, 
but"-"  he  paused,  and  turned  a  searching 
look  upon  the  youth  — "  but  do  not  blame 
him  too  severely  for  his  foolishness,  Wil- 
helm; he  did  it  for  Gertrude's  sake.  And 
when  the  crash  came,"  he  continued,  "  the 
old  man  went  back  to  them  and  said  to 
them,  '  You  have  deceived  me,'  but  they  only 
laughed  and  said,  *  Poor  old  Steinhoff !  It 
was  your  own  fault.  Why  did  you  invest  so 
much  if  you  feared  to  lose?  We  cannot  help 
you.'  Ah,  well,  Wilhelm,"  he  concluded,  "  It 
has  taught  me  a  lesson.  I  shall  trust  still 
fewer  in  the  future." 

His  voice  sank  to  a  whisper,  and  a  tear 
rolled  down  his  cheek.  Wilhelm  was  thor- 
oughly alarmed. 

"  Is  the  loss  so  very  heavy,  grandfather? 
Is  there  danger  of  our  losing  the  home?" 

The  old  man  made  an  effort  to  recover 


A   8  TAB   IN  A  PR  I  SON. 


15 


himself.  "  No,  no,  boy,"  he  replied.  "  With 
economy  there  Is  still  enough  left  to  keep 
Gertie  and  me  for  many  years  yet,  but  — 
but—"  He  paused  and  rubbed  his  hands 
over  the  chair-arms  nervously. 

Wllhelm  divined  what  he  would  say.  "I 
see,"  he  said.  "  My  ochool  course  Is  an 
expensive  one.  It  wIU  be  better  for  me  to 
make  my  own  way  now." 

The  old  man  nodded  slowly.  "Wllhelm," 
he  said,  "  you  have  been  a  good  boy.  I  wish 
I  could  afford  to  put  you  through;  but,"  he 
added  in  a  whisper  to  himself,  "  Gertie's 
fortune  is  going,  and  something  has  to  be 
done." 

"  Indeed,  sir,"  said  Wllhelm,  with  emo- 
tion, "  you  have  done  too  much  for.  me  al- 
ready. I  can  never  repay  you  for  your  kind- 
ness to  me.  I  shall  likely  get  n  good  situa- 
tion at  something  soon.  And  remember, 
grandfather,"  he  added,  "  in  whatever  cir- 
cumstances I  may  be  placed,  my  first 
thought  shall  always  be  of  you  and  Ger- 
trude. Wherever  my  home  may  be,  there 
will  be  a  home  for  you  and  for  her." 

"Thank  you,  thank  you,  lad.  I  know  it," 
muttered  the  old  man.  "  You  were  always 
a  good  boy,  Wllhelm.  Now  then,  find  as 
good  a  situation  as  you  can,  and  may  pros- 
perity go  with  you." 

He  wa>  ed  Wllhelm  from  his  side.  "  That 
is  all  I  want  of  you  now,"  he  said.  "  Good- 
night, boy."  And  the  young  man  left  the 
room. 

Wilhelm  stopped  school  at  once,  and  set 
out  in  quest  of  a  situation.  For  the  next 
three  weeks  he  spent  nearly  aii  his  time  in 
going  from  place  to  place  seeking  for  work. 
Finally  he  was  glad  to  take  the  place  of 
accountant  for  a  large  manufacturing  firm, 
and  when  he  at  last  sat  down  on  a  tall  stool 
In  his  close,  dingy  little  office,  he  felt  as 
independent  as  a  king  on  his  throne.  As 
the  months  went  by,  the  constant  addition 
of  long  columns,  the  writing  of  invoices  and 
bills  of  account,  grew  often  irksome.  Every 
inclination    of    his    mind    turned    towards 


science  and  philosophy  rather  than  to  jour- 
nals and  ledgers.  Yet  he  did  not  repine.  He 
believed  in  doing  with  all  his  heart  the  duty 
that  was  ai  hand,  so  he  entered  into  his 
monotonous  tasks  with  a  will,  and  still 
dared  to  hope  that  the  future  might  bring 
with  it  something  more  congenial  to  his 
tastes.  His  faithfulness  did  not  escape  the 
notice  and  the  commendation  of  his  em- 
ployers. 

In  the  meantime  he  continued  to  study 
every  night,  and  still  felt  that  by  concen- 
tration and  persevering  effort,  he  could  ac- 
complish much. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

A  DAY  OP  STRANGE  OCCURRENCES. 

O  Gertrude,  not  an  eddy 
had  come  with  the  cur- 
rent of  life.  She  had 
now  become  the  little 
housekeeper,  and  a  pleas- 
ant sight  it  was  to  see 
the  shimmer  of  her  hair 
and  the  warm  rose-bloom 
of  her  face  as  it  bent  in  sober  interest  over 
the  crisp  green  salads  or  the  soft  white 
biscuits  which  her  slender  fingers  often 
made  for  the  dainty  home  table. 

She  seemed  a  part  and  parcel  of  Wilhelm's 
life.  Together  they  walked  down  busy 
streets,  or  strolled  through  fields  white  with 
daisies.  Together  they  went  to  church  and 
sat  with  reverent  faces,  where  the  soft 
amber  light  from  a  great  stained-glass  win- 
dow fell  upon  them.  Hermann  never  went 
there  with  them.  He  noted  their  growing 
interest  in  things  of  a  religious  nature,  and 
never  attempted  to  Interfere  with  their 
Ideas  In  any  way,  yet  he  smiled  at  what  he 
looked  upon  as  a  harmless  and  pretty  delu- 
sion of  young  minds,  and  an  excusable 
clinging  to  tradition  of  older  ones. 


16 


A  STAB   IN  A  FBI  SON. 


Upon  one  occasion  only  had  he  crept 
within  the  portals  of  the  church,  and  then 
Wllhelm  and  Gertrude  did  not  know  of  It. 
It  was  at  the  time  when  they  Joined  the 
professed  band  of  God's  people.  Together 
they  walked  down  the  broad  aisle  among 
the  crowds  of  new  communicants.  Together 
they  knelt  at  the  communion  table,  and  ac- 
knowledged themselves  followers  of  Jesus. 
Together  they  listened  with  a  new  reverence 
to  the  tones  of  the  minister  reading  softly 
the  words  by  which  the  Savior  had  insti- 
tuted the  feast  of  Joy.  And  awuy  up  In  the 
dim  gallery,  frcm  the  shadow  of  a  great 
pillar,  two  old  ejes  looked  down  upon  them, 
and  an  old  heart  was  strangely  moved,  It 
knew  not  why.  Then,  after  the  service,  an 
old,  bent  man  hurried  silently  away,  feeling 
unusually  lonely  upon  this  glorious  Sabbath 
morning,  for  he  was  not  one  of  these;  he 
knew  nothing  of  the  spiritual  rejoicing 
which  these  people  professed.  Hermann  said 
nothing  of  his  Isit,  and  its  emotion  soon 
passed  out  of  his  mind. 

The  young  people  often  talked  of  their 
grandfather's  barren  spiritual  condition,  and 
formed  plan^,  for  securing  even  his  Interest 
in  the  worship  which  they  were  learning  to 
love  better  every  day;  but  when  they  at- 
tempted to  speak  of  such  things  to  him,  tbey 
were  Invariably  disappointed,  for  he  ever 
put  them  gently  aside,  and  would  not  listen. 

So  the  time  went  by  in  which  these  two 
young  people  were  united  in  thought,  in  aim. 
and  In  interest.  Little  wonder  was  It  that 
they  loved  each  other  as  few  brothers  and 
sisters,  perhaps,  do.  To  Gertrude,  indeed, 
Wllhelm  was  ever  the  dearest,  and  best, 
and  most  respected  of  brothers.  In  Wll- 
helm, however,  a  different  feeling  was 
growing,  with  a  power  as  awful  as  it  was 
sweet,  and  one  day  he  suddenly  realized  that 
he  loved  Gertrude  more  than  'ie  could  ever 
love  anyone  else  in  all  the  wide  world. 

He  and  she  had  been  out  all  the  afternoon 
with  a  gay  party  of  young  friends  who  were 
roaming  thiough  a  small  wood  In  search  of 


flowers.  Towards  evening  they  became  sep- 
arated. In  some  way,  from  the  rest,  and 
found  themselves  in  a  wooded  dell  alone. 
They  stopped  to  rest  for  a  few  moments  on 
the  bank  of  a  gurgling  stream  which 
purled  noisily  below,  winding  its  way  over 
mossy  stones  and  beneath  tangles  of 
bramble,  and  vines  bright  with  red  berries. 

The  girl  was  sitting  upon  the  moss-grown 
trunk  of  a  fallen  tree.  From  the  leafage 
above  a  flood  of  green  gold  hurrA  through, 
seeming  to  form  itself  into  a  halo  about  her 
head.  She  wore  a  soft  dress  of  white,  and 
a  bunch  of  wild  roses  was  caught  at  her 
throat  Her  eyes  were  raised  thoughtfully 
to  the  glints  of  the  blue  sky  above,  and  her 
tiny  hands  were  caressing  the  little  white 
dog  that  had  crawled  to  her  knee,  with 
the  sweet  tenderness  which  marks  the 
touch  of  every  true  woman  towards  that 
which  Is  small,  or  feeble,  or  helpless.  All  at 
once  Wllhelm  realized  that  he  loved  her.  He 
knew,  too,  that  it  was  not  the  glamour  of  the 
place,  nor  the  hour,  nor  even  her  radiant 
beauty,  that  had  fallen  upon  him,  but  that  he 
loved  her  for  her  noble  womanhood,  her 
gentle,  joy-glving  life,  her  tender,  loving 
heart.  He  thought  then  that  he  must  have 
always  loved  her  thus. 

He  was  sitting  at  her  feet,  and  as  he 
glanced  up  at  her  she  caught  a  look  so  wist- 
ful, so  pleading,  that  she  started  at  its  In- 
tensity, though  she  did  not  guess  at  its 
meaning.  It  reminded  her  of  the  look  she 
had  seen  upon  th^  face  of  the  little  lad 
whom  she  had  gone  to  seek  in  the  grimy, 
lower  part  of  the  vessel,  so  long  ago.  She 
mentioned  the  recollection  to  him.  His  face 
changed,  the  flush  upon  his  cheek  deepened, 
and  the  light  In  his  eyes  grew  more  Intense. 
He  arose  and  sat  down  beside  her. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  and  a  tremble  of  emotion 
was  in  his  voice.  "  You  became  the  guardian 
angel  of  the  ragged  little  lad  then.  You 
have  been  his  guiding  spirit  ever  since." 

She  raised  her  head  to  look  at  him  with 
a  little  deprecating  gesture,  and  her  soft. 


i»»iiiit* 


w 


wmmmm 


.a me  sep- 

rest,   and 

ell   alone. 

uients  on 

u     which 

way  over 

n^les     of 

d  berries. 

ass-grown 

e  leafage 

through, 

about  her 

i^hite,  and 

ht  at  her 

jughtfully 

i,  and  her 

ttle  white 

nee,    with 

larks    the 

ards  that 

ss.    All  at 

;d  her.  He 

lOur  of  the 

er  radiant 

but  that  he 

thood,    her 

er,    loving 

must  have 

ind  as  he 
Dk  so  wist- 

at  its  In- 
ess  at  its 
e  look  she 

little  lad 
the  grimy, 

ago.  She 
,    His  face 

deepened, 
ire  intense. 

of  emotion 
e  guardian 
then.  You 
since." 
;  him  with 
\  her  soft, 


A   STAR   IN  A   PRISON. 


17 


golden  billows  of  hair  almost  swept  his 
cheek.  She  dropped  her  little  hand,  like  a 
warm,  white  rose-leaf,  on  his  knee.  It  was 
an  old  habit  of  her  childhood,  and  she 
thought  nothing  of  it.  Wllhelm's  hand 
closed  upon  it,  and  he  trembled. 

Then  speech  came  to  him.  He  told  her  of 
his  love  in  simple,  burning  words  that  were 
the  utterance  of  his  very  heart.  He  asked 
her  to  be  his  wife.  For  one  moment  she 
looked  at  him  with  a  startled  expression  in 
her  gentle,  blue  eyes,  then  she  dropped  her 
head,  and  he  could  not  see  t'  it  she  was 
quietly  weeping. 

"  Gertrude,"  he  pleaded,  "  will  you  not 
speak  to  me?" 

She  brushed  her  hands  over  her  forehead 
with  the  little  gesture  that  was  habitual  to 
her  when  she  was  troubled. 

"  Wllhelm,"  she  said,  with  a  tremor  in  her 
voice,  "  I  am  so  sorry  you  care  for  me  in 
this  way.  We  have  been  so  happy  just  as 
we  were  — and,  oh,  Wilhelm,  I  cannot  give 
you  the  promise  you  ask  of  me!  Don't  you 
know  you  are  just  a  dear,  dear  brother  to 
me— and  you  deserve  more  than  tliat  In  a 
wife,  Wilhelm." 

Her  voice  broke  down.  She  bowed  her 
head  on  her  hands  and  sobbed.  Wllhelm's 
face  grew  very  pale.  For  a  moment  he  sat 
as  though  crushed  with  the  overthrow  of 
his  hopes,  then  he  looked  at  her  bowed 
head,  and  his  face  softened.  Once  more  he 
took  her  hands  in  his. 

"Gertrude,"  he  said,  "don't  cry,  little 
sister.  Forgive  me  for  distressing  you,  Ger- 
trude. See,  Gertie,  listen.  I  will  promise 
you  that  I  shall  never  trouble  you  in  this 
way  again— unless,"  he  added,  in  a  low  tone, 
"  unless  a  time  shall  come  when  you  may  be 
willing  to  hear  me." 

"  But,"  she  sobbed,  "  I  hate  to  have  you 
hurt  so,  Wilhelm!" 

"Never  mind,"  he  said,  comforting  her. 
"  I  shall  always  be  a  better  man  for  having 
loved  you,  Gertie.  You  have  been  a  great 
influence  in  my  life,  little  sister.    You  have 


always  believed  In  me.  Gertrude.  Believe  in 
me  still.  I  shall  try  to  be  a  good  man, 
worthy  of  your  trust.  I  shall  try  not  to  dis- 
appoint you." 

He  was  trying  to  comfort  her,  but  his 
voice  had  a  hopelessness  in  it  that  was 
sadder  than  tears.  Gertrude  stood  up,  and 
dashed  the  tears  from  her  face. 

"  Wilhelm."  she  said,  "  I  cannot  hear  you 
talk  like  this.  You  are  not  thinking  of  what 
you  are  saying.  To  direct  your  life  by  what 
I  or  any  other  woman  may  think  of  you  is 
not  worthy  of  you."  She  paused,  and  her 
voice  took  a  cadence  softer,  sweeter  than 
that  of  the  purling  brook  at  her  feet.  "  No, 
Wilhelm,  my  brother,"  she  continued,  "  you 
will  not  disappoint  your  own  best  self.  I 
know  you  will  not.  Your  ideal  of  what  is 
highest  and  noblest  in  life  is  independent 
of  me,  or  of  any  human  being." 

Her  voice  dropped  almost  to  a  whisper, 
and  Into  her  eyes  came  the  far-off  expression 
which  sometimes  made  her  look  as  though 
she  were  gazing  beyond  the  skies.  "  Dear 
Wilhelm,"  she  whispered,  "  if  you  should 
never  see  or  hear  of  me  again,  you  would 
still  be  the  best  that  you  can  be,  for  your 
own  sake,  and  —  God's." 

He  bowed  his  head,  for  her  words  had 
the  effect,  as  they  so  often  had,  of  direct- 
ing his  thought,  not  to  herself,  but  to  things 
higher  than  those  of  earth. 

As  she  concluded,  the  merry  laughter  of 
the  returning  party  was  heard.  In  a  few 
moments  the  bushes  parted,  and  the  young 
people,  laden  with  gay  trophies  of  the  forest 
ramble,  burst  through. 

"  Well,  I  declare!"  exclaimed  one  of  the 
young  ladies,  "  if  this  devoted  brother  and 
sister  haven't  been  here  all  by  themselves! 
We  were  wondering  where  you  had  strayed. 
Come,  Gertrude,  let  me  drape  your  hat  with 
ferns." 

The  girls  strayed  off  together,  and  Wil- 
helm followed  with  some  of  the  others.  As 
they  passed  out  of  the  wood  and  took  their 
way  down  the  long  white  road  that  led  to 


.    . .-  -^ 

\  "1 


18 


A  STAR   IN  A   PBISON. 


the  city,  whose  spires  and  pinnacles  were 
now  sparkling  with  the  evening  sun,  some 
one  else  also  emerged  from  It  upon  the 
opposite  side,  and  took  his  way  over  a  fence 
and  across  a  green  field.  This  was  a  lad 
perhaps  fourteen  years  of  age.  His  eyes 
were  black  and  bright,  his  skin  brown  as  a 
butternut,  his  smile  merry.  He  wore  a 
ragged  felt  hat,  and  trousers  that  reached  to 
bis  knees.  He  had  on  no  shoes  or  stockings, 
but  his  bare  feet  pattered  bravely  over  hot 
sand  and  sharp  stones,  and  trod  luxuriously 
through  the  soft,  cool  green  grass,  dotted 
with  buttercups.  He  was  a  thorough  little 
street  boy,  shrewd,  sharp,  ragged  and 
happy.  He  had  lived  mostly  among  men; 
he  read  the  dally  newspapers,  which  he  sold 
at  the  street  corners,  and  he  knew  some- 
thing of  politics.  He  saw  and  heard  three 
times  as  much  as  the  ordinary  boy  who 
walks  In  the  usual  paths  of  life,  and  his 
wanderings  in  search  of  work,  of  food,  or 
of  adventure,  led  him  into  all  sorts  of  queer 
by-paths,  and  odd,  out-of-the-way  corners. 
This  afternoon  he  had  succeeded  in  finding 
an  adventure. 

He  was  laughing  softly  to  himself,  for  he 
had  been  an  unobservrd  spectator  of  the  lit- 
tle Hcene  between  Wilhelm  and  Gertrude  in 
the  wood,  and,  as  yet,  he  was  inclined  to 
look  with  a  great  deal  of  amusement,  and, 
perhaps,  a  little  contempt,  upon  all  such  dis- 
plays of  feeling. 

"  I  guess  Monsieur  Adolphe  Belleau  got 
wan  lesson  dat  trip!"  he  was  saying  to  him- 
self. "Ma  foi!  dey  didn't  know  dey  had  an 
audience!  Was  it  a  mean  trick  to  look  on? 
But,  no;  Adolphe  was  dere  first  In  de  cool, 
grassy  place.  If  de  branches  were  not  close 
enough.  It  was  not  at  all  a  fault  to  heem. 
For  why  did  dey  come  dere  if  dey  wanted 
not  to  be  seen?"  He  laughed  again.  "Well, 
it  ifv^as  better  dan  de  theater,  and  Adolphe 
Bellleau  was  de  audience!" 

He  stopped,  plucked  a  buttercup,  and  put 
it  in  his  button-hole.  "  It's  not  so  pretty  as 
de  L\alr  of  de  lady,"   he  said  to  himself. 


"  Pure  gold,  it  was,  very  pritty.    Heem,  too, 
heem  very  handsome  gentleman." 

So  saying,  the  French  boy  ran  along, 
leaping  over  ditches  and  high  fences,  and 
carolling  gay  little  snatches  of  song  to  him- 
self. Presently,  as  he  crossed  a  green  field, 
on  the  very  outskirts  of  the  city,  he  caught 
a  glimpse  of  some  one  whom  he  thought  he 
knew,  Just  outside  of  the  fence  that  bor- 
dered the  road.  It  was  a  crooked  figure, 
hobbling  painfully  along  with  a  pair  of 
crutches.  Adolphe  gave  a  shrill  whistle. 
An  answering  whistle  came  back  across  the 
buttercups,  and  the  owner  of  the  crutches 
placed  a  very  homely  face,  consisting 
chiefly  of  a  wide  mouth,  and  two  great, 
wistful  eyes,  against  the  space  between  the 
pickets. 

"Hi!  I  thought  to  myself  it  was  you, 
Georgle,"  called  the  French  boy,  running 
towards  him.    "  W'at  are  you  doing  here?" 

The  crippled  lad  looked  wistfully  at  the 
blossoming  field.  "  I  was  Just  wishing,"  re- 
plied he,  "  that  I  could  get  in  there.  The 
grass  looks  so  cool,  and  my  feet  ache  so 
to-day!" 

"  Oh,  we'll  feex  dat  all  right,"  returned 
the  other  quickly.  "  I  know  a  place  w'ere 
de— w'at-you-call  heem  ?— peecket  is  broken. 
I  will  help  you  t'roo.  Den  we  will  go  and 
sit  under  de  bushes." 

He  walked  along  inside  of  the  fence,  and 
the  poor,  weak  lad  hobbled  along  on  the  out- 
side until  the  broken  place  was  reached. 
Then  Adolphe  helped  him  through,  and 
guided  him  over  the  rough,  grassy  ground 
until  they  came  to  a  tall  clump  of  bushes 
v.'hich  grew  beside  a  tiny  riU.  ,. 

"  Now  den,  you  can  put  de  poor,  sore  feet 
into  de  cool  water,"  said  Adolphe,  stepping 
In,  and  watching  the  little  ripples  curling 
about  his  own  sturdy  brown  ankles. 

The  cripple  sank  down,  with  a  sigh,  upon 
a  soft  bank.  "It  is  beautiful  here,"  he 
said,  "and  you  are  very  Icind  to  me, 
Adolphe—- so  different  from  the  other  boys. 
Do  you  know,"  and  be  lowered  his  voice  In 


■•ppi 


mmmmmmfmmmmmmm 


icm,  too, 

b   alongr. 

ces,  and 

to  him- 

Lien  field, 

e  caught 

ought  he 

hat  bor- 

d  figure, 

pair   of 

whistle. 

cross  the 

crutches 

onsisting 

70  great. 

ween  the 

iwas  you, 

running 

here?" 

y  at  the 

tiing,"  re- 

lere.    The 

ache  so 

returned 
ice  w'ere 
s  brolcen. 
11  go  and 

ence,  and 
n  the  out- 
reached, 
ugh,  and 
ly  ground 
of  bushes 

sore  feet 
stepping 
>s  curling 
s. 

ilgh,  upon 
bere,*'  he 
[  to  me, 
ther  boys, 
a  voice  in 


A   STAR   IN  A   PRISON. 


19 


a  pathetic  whisper,  "  they  call  me,  some- 
times, '  bandy  -  legs,'  and  '  hop  -  and  -  go 
fetch!'  •• 

"  Dey  do?"  rejoined  Adolphe,  with  em- 
phasis. "Well,  dey  not  do  it  if  Adolphe 
Belieau  !s  around.    Dat's  all  I  have  to  say!" 

"  What  malces  you  so  different?"  aslced  the 
t)oy,  looliing  at  Adolphe  with  his  great  eyes 
full  of  wonder. 

Adolphe  reflected.  "Why,  I  guess  I 
caught  any  goodness  T  have  from  de  kind 
doctor— Dr.  Keith  Cameron,"  he  said.  "  Dat 
sort  of  t'ing  is  — is  ^^ontagious,  you  Icnow." 

The  lame  l>oy  nodded.  He  scarcely  under- 
stood the  long  words  which  it  was  the 
French  boy's  pleasure  to  use  occasionally, 
so  he  always  nodded  assent. 

"  Do  you  l£now  heem?"  inquired  Adolphe. 

Georgie*s  face  brightened.  "  Know  him! 
I  should  say  1  did!"  he  replied,  with  par- 
donable pride.  "  Why,  he  saw  me  on  the 
street  one  day,  uud  uslied  me  about  my 
knees;  and  tlien  he  came  to  our  bouse." 

'*'  Talk  about  city  missionaries!"  remarked 
the  French  boy  philosophically,  "  dere  is  not 
of  dem  one  who  can  hold  a  candle  to  heem— 
among  de  heathens  of  dis  city,  at  any  rate." 

He  sat  down,  pushed  his  hat  to  the  back  of 
his  head,  placed  a 'buttercup  stem  between 
his  teeth,  and  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 
He  seemed  to  have  something  on  his  mind. 
Presently  he  jerked  his  hands  out  again  in 
a  very  decided  manner,  and  threw  the  but- 
tercup into  the  stream. 

"  I  am  going  to  tell  you  somet'ing, 
Qeorgie,"  he  said,  "  because  you  don't  go 
around  wit'  de  fellers,  and  you'll  not  tell, 
will  you?" 

"  Never!"  said  the  cripple,  with  emphasis. 

"Well,  den,  it  is  wan  secret.  I  have  not 
told  it  to  anywan  more,  except  to  dis  same 
Dr.  Cameron.    You  know  de  old  house  at 

425 Street,  w'ere  de  l)oys  sometimes  go 

up  in  de  loft  to  play  '  FoUow-your-leader '?" 

Georgie  nodded. 

"  Well,  den,  it  is  not  empty,  as  we  was 
t'lnk  at  wan  tam." 


"Has  somebody  moved  into  it?" 

"No.  Hush!  I  will  tell  you  all.  Las' 
night,  very  late,  I  see  a  man,  very  ole,  very 
bent,  go  down  de  street  dere.  Heem  dressed 
very  fine.  I  know  he  not  belong  to  dat  quar- 
ter. I  follow  heem  away  out  to  dat  house. 
He  goes  in  at  de  back;  gets  in.  too,  mind 
you,  past  all  dose  boards  on  de  door.  I 
creep  into  de  shed.  I  see  a  red,  very  ^mall 
light  go  up  t'roo  a  crack.  I  climb  up  in  de 
loft  and  look  down.  I  see  a  room,  wit' 
machines.  Den  I  see  de  old  man  working 
wit'  dem,  and  affer  while,  so  sure  as  my 
name  is  Adolphe  Belieau.  I  see  heem  take 
from  dem  money— new  bills.  It  nearly  take 
my  breath  from  me.  I  say  to  myself,  *  Dis 
money  not  good,  else  he  never  work  at  it 
in  dat  ole  house  ail  barred  up.'  ' 

Georgie  was  listening  in  open-eyed  won- 
der. 

"  Who  is  he?"  he  asked. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  answered  Adolphe,  "  but 
de  police  find  out  pretty  soon,  I  guess.  He 
is  a  man  very  ole,  very  t'in.  He  has  a  gray 
beard,  and  hair  of  gray  dat  trails  out  over 
hees  collar.  He  wears  a  black  coat,  very 
fine,  and  on  hees  head  he  has  a  skull-cap  of 
black,  dat  he  did  not  wear  on  de  street. 
Hees  hands  dey  tremble  very  much." 

"  My!"  said  Georgie,  "  what  did  you  do? 
Will  he  be  put  in  prison?" 

"I  went  to  tell  de  police.  I  meet  Dr. 
Cameron  Instead,  so  he  tell  dem,  and  take 
me  wit'  heem  to  de  police  station  dis  morn- 
ing very  early.  As  soon  a&  dey  get  heem. 
dey  will  fees  heem,  sure." 

Now,  by  a  strange  coincidence,  it  happened 
that  this  conversation  was  overheard  by 
none  other  than  Wiihelm  Stelnhoflf.  On 
leaving  the  party  in  the  city,  he  had  turned 
back  In  search  of  some  spot  where  he  might 
be  quite  alone.  He  felt  that  he  did  not 
care  to  see  or  talk  to  people  this  evening, 
and  his  feet,  quite  naturally,  turned  down 
towards  one  of  his  old  botanizing  haunts, 
the  little  rill  that  fiowed  through  the  butter- 
cjp-covered    field.     He    lay    down    in    the 


i    :|'~T' 


20 


A   STAR   IN  A   PBiaON. 


shade  of  the  evergreen  bushes,  and  gave 
hluiHelf  up  to  his  own  meditations.  I'lts- 
ently  he  heard  voices,  but,  perceiving  that 
the  new-comers  were  only  two  lads,  dabbling 
their  feet  In  the  water,  he  paid  no  further 
altentlon  to  them.  Then,  In  a  vague  sort  of 
way,  he  realized  that  he  had  lieard  a  few 
words  which  referred  to  something  out  of 
the  ordinary.  They  were  those  relating  to 
the  making  of  the  "not  good  "  money.  With- 
out Imagining  that  he  was.  In  any  way, 
playing  the  part  of  eavesdropper  to  any- 
thing of  real  importance,  he  continued  to  lie 
there. 

Every  word  spoken  by  Adolphe,  In  de- 
eerlblng  the  strange  old  man,  came  to  his 
ear.  What  was  there  in  them  which  caused 
him  to  start,  with  a  sudden,  keen  awakening 
of  every  faculty?  In  vain  he  told  himself 
that  this  was  but  the  Idle  talk  of  a  ragged 
boy.  An  Indefinable  horror  seemed  settling 
on  his  mind,  for  was  not  his  grandfather, 
Hermann  Stelnhoff,  also  bent  and  thin? 
Had  he  not  also  trembling  hands,  and  gray 
beard  and  hair?  Did  he  not  also  wear  a 
black  coat,  and.  In  the  house,  a  black  skull- 
cap? He  tried  to  persuade  himself  that  a 
dozen  old  men  In  the  city  might  answer  to 
just  such  a  description,  and  yet,  and  yet— 
Wilhelm  had  a  reason  for  having  his  sus- 
picions point  directly  towards  Hermann 
Stelnhoff.  Befcri'e  his  eyes  came  the  vision 
0  '.  strange  occurrence,  that  had  seemed  to 
b  ji,  at  the  time,  rather  peculiar,  but  that 
was  now  fraught  with  a  new  and  horrible 
significance.  In  vain  he  tried  to  think  that 
it  was  but  a  trifling  Incident  after  all.  It 
returned  to  him  again  and  again,  with 
awful  force,  with  a  poisonous  breath  of  sus- 
picion which  he  could  not  drive  away. 

Upon  the  night  of  the  occurrence  in  ques- 
tion, he  had  been  studying  later  than  usual. 
At  last,  finding  his  eyes  weary,  he  had  put 
out  the  light  and  had  sat  down  by  the  win- 
dow to  rest  a  minute  before  making  ready 
for  bed.  It  was  a  beautiful,  calm  night,  and 
as  he  sat  there  looking  out  upon  the  waving 


branches,  and  the  lights  twinkling  like  dia- 
monds in  all  parts  of  the  city,  he  fancied 
he  heard  the  lower,  outside  door  leading 
from  (Jrandfather  Stelnhoff's  laboratory, 
close  quietly.  A  moment  later  he  noticed  p* 
dark  figure  gliding  along  In  the  shadow  of 
the  trees.  Snatching  up  his  hat,  he  hurried 
quietly  out,  and  followed  on  to  the  gate  and 
out  upon  the  shaded  street.  In  a  few  mo- 
ments the  figure  moving  on  ahead  came  out 
Into  the  glare  of  a  street-lamp,  and  Wilhelm 
saw  ^hat  It  was  none  other  than  Hermann 
Stelnhoff. 

Somewhat  surprised  that  his  grandfather 
should  be  making  a  Journey  out  at  such  a 
late  hour,  Wilhelm  resolved  to  follow, 
merely  to  see  that  no  harm  came  to  him. 
The  old  man  went  steadily  on,  seemingly 
with  some  object  In  view,  towards  the  dis- 
trict of  Lower  Town,  and,  as  the  more  for- 
saken portion  of  that  vicinity  was  reached, 
the  stillness  was  so  marked  that  Wilhelm 
could  hear  the  tapping  of  the  old  man's 
stout  cane  on  the  sidewalk.  Perhaps  Her- 
mann, too,  heard  his  following  step.  At  any 
rate,  he  turned.  Wilhelm  happened  to  be  im- 
mediately beneath  a  light.  The  old  man 
recognized  him  at  once,  and  came  back 
towards  him. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here,  grandfather?" 
asked  Wilhelm. 

"  Rather,  may  I  ask,  what  are  you  doing 
here?"  returned  Hermann. 

"  Why,"  replied  Wilhelm,  "  I  saw  some 
one  leaving  the  house.  I  followed.  Tlie 
person  proved  to  be  you,  so  I  came  on  to  see 
that  nothing  happened  to  you." 

The  old  man  had  started  vigorously  back 
towards  home.  "  It's  a  pity,"  he  said,  "  if  I 
can't  go  out  for  a  w^alk  when  I  can't  sleep. 
I'm  not  a  child  again  yet,  Wilhelm." 

He  spoke  petulantly,  and  Wilhelm  was 
willing  to  accept  the  explanation,  thoagh  he 
wondered  a  little  why  Hermann  should  pass 
the  beautiful  residence  streets  above,  and 
choose  this  lonely,  forsaken  locality  for  bis 
walk. 


A   STAJi    IN  A    PRISON. 


21 


This  evening,  as  tlie  words  of  tlip  little 
French  boy  fell  diHtlMctly  ui>r.n  Wilholm'H 
ear,  every  detail  of  that  nlRhtly  advcMitiiro 
cn'me  bn^'k  wlih  condomnlnj?  dlstlnottu'ss. 

From  the  other  nldo  of  the  bushes  he 
heard  the  French  boy  say; 

"  Now,  Georgle,  you'll  no  tell  dls  t'lnj?, 
because,  you  know,  It  ni"s'  be  kcp'  a  grand 
aecret,  until  de  ole  fellei   is  "aught." 

"  I'll  not  tell,  sure,  AUoli»lie,  until  you  let 
me,"  replied  the  cripple, 

"  Now,  den,  we  mus'  go  home,"  returned 
the  other  voice;  "de  dew  she's  fallin',  and 
you'll  have  de  cold,  Georgle." 

The  cripple  answered  wistfully,  "  I'd  like 
to  stay  here  all  night,  Adolphe,  along  with 
you.  It  would  be  so  beautiful  to  see  the 
stars  come  out." 

"  But  I  mus'  go  home  to  Agnes."  returned 
the  French  boy.  "  She  is  seeck,  you  know, 
an'  not  better  yet." 

"Very  well,  then;  come  on,"  i?aid  Georgle; 
and  together  they  set  out  across  the  now 
(lurkening  field,  little  dreaming  of  the  un- 
easy mind  they  had  left  behind  them  among 
the  bushes.  As  they  disappeared,  Wllhelm 
sat  up,  and  once  more  tried  to  throw  the 
anxiety  from  his  mind.  He  reasoned  with 
himself.  "  It  Is  ungrateful,  it  Is  contempt- 
ible In  you,  Wllhelm  Stolnhoft',  to  let  such  a 
thing  enter  your  mind!  You  dishonor  your 
manhood  by  harboring  such  a  sneaking  sus- 
picion." 

But  he  could  not  satisfy  himself.  He 
could  bear  the  suspense  no  longer.  He 
must  know  the  truth  of  this  thing.  He 
would  go  home  at  once  and  place  the  matter 
before  Hermann.  Then  he  would  be  sure. 
He  got  up  immediately  and  took  his  way, 
with  feverish  iiaste,  across  the  fields.  The 
night  winds  blew  softly,  the  stars  came  out 
calmly.  But  nature's  balm  brought  no  rest 
for  his  anxious  spirit  to-night.  Truly,  in  the 
words  of  a  great  poet: 

"  We  receive  but  what  we  give. 

And  in  our  life  alone  does  nature  live. 


OnPH  id  her  wedding- jmrmont,  onrx  her  Jihroud! 
And  would  wp  aught  iK'hold  of  liit?hor  wortli 
'i'hnn  tiint  inanimnte  rold  world  allowed 
To  the  poor,  loveiesH,  ever-nnxioua  crowd, 
Ah!  from  the  goul  itself  mtint  issue  forth 
A  light,  a  glory,  a  fair  luminous  cloud, 
Enveloping  the  earth." 


CHAPTER  V. 

ADOLPHE'S  REMARKABLE 
DISCOVERY. 

HE  manner  In  which 
Adolphe  F^Meau  had 
happened  upon  his  ad- 
venture of  ihe  night 
before,  was  somewiiat 
as  follows:  Through 
the  day  he  had  been 
working  on  the  very  outskirts  of  the  city, 
and  had  been  delayed  until  quite  late  In  the 
night.  Somewhat  lonely,  he  was  trudging 
along  towards  home  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  singing  merrily  to  keep  himself 
company,  when,  just  as  he  reached  the  com- 
mons, with  the  willow-shaded  street  running 
along  beside  It,  he  noticed  the  peculiar 
figure  of  the  old  man  whom  he  had  de- 
scribed to  Georgle,  and  who  happened,  at 
the  time,  to  be  near  one  of  the  few  lamps 
scattered  along  on  the  edge  of  the  street. 
His  appearance  struck  the  boy.  Altogether 
there  was  something  strange  in  the  pres- 
ence of  a  man  so  old,  so  well  dressed, 
and  so  business-like  in  his  demeanor,  upon 
such  a  street  as  this,  at  such  a  late  hour,  for 
it  was  verging  upon  midnight.  Adolphe 
would  follow,  and  see  where  he  was  going. 
The  bent  figure  glided  on  ahead,  dimly, 
in  the  shadow  under  the  trees;  the  boy  crept 
along  silently  behind.  The  gay  song  was 
hushed,  and  the  lad's  whole  being  became 
focused  in  one  idea  —  seeing.  For  the  time 
he  was  all  eyes.  He  saw  the  old  man  pause 
once  and  glance  up  and  down  the  street. 
Adolphe  stopped  stone  still. 


Mtt 


22 


A  STAB   IN  A  FBI  SON. 


"ti 


ijjiii 


The  old  man  passed  rapidly  on  again  until 
he  reached  a  passase  leading  in  at  the  end 
of  an  isolated  house.  Adolphe  Isnew  the 
placa  well.  It  was  a  square  stone  house, 
with  a  partially  open  shed  at  the  back.  The 
door  leading  from  *his  thed  into  the  house 
was  securely  boarded  up;  so  was  every 
other  door  and  every  window.  It  seemed  a 
very  innocent  structure,  peacefully  await- 
ing a  new  tenant.  The  passage  into  which 
the  old  man  turned  was  a  narrow  one,  shel- 
tered on  the  north  by  a  very  high  board 
fence. 

Adolphe  ran  swiftly  along  and  dropped 
down  at  the  outer  end  of  this  fence.  He  was 
Just  in  time  to  see  the  old  man  enter  the 
shed,  gliding  like  a  darlf  shadow  from  with- 
out, Into  the  darker  shades  of  the  blackness 
within. 

Adolphe  crept  nearer.  He  heard  a  sound 
as  of  the  cautious  displacing  of  boards.  Thpn 
a  door  seemed  to  creak.  The  boy's  being 
was  now  resolved  into  one  organ  of  hearing. 
Again  came  the  sound  as  of  boards,  or  a 
board,  being  gently  shoved  into  place. 
What  did  it  all  mean?  Was  this  man  an  old 
n?i8er,  entering  here  by  night  to  secrete  his 
bags  of  gold?  Visions  of  buried  pots  and 
untold  riches  danced  before  the  lad's  eyes. 
He  lay  until  all  was  still,  then  he  silently 
entered  the  shed,  and  stood  breathlessly 
ready  to  fly  at  the  slightest  warning. 

He  strained  his  ears  to  listen*  There!  A 
dull  souuf'  of  tapping  came  faintly  from 
within.  This  strange,  nightly  visitant  was 
certainly  inside  the  house. 

Adolphe  silently  moved  towards  the  door, 
and  felt  it  cautiously.  The  rough  boards 
were  still  there.  He  passed  his  bond  along. 
Yes,  the  lace  seemed  barricaded  up 
securely  as  ever.  How  was  this?  Was  this 
old  man  a  wizard,  that  he  could  thus  pass 
through  barred  and  boarded  entrances? 
There  was  some  mystery  here. 

The  boy  listened  again,  and  stared  about 
in  the  darkness.  Presently  his  sharp  eye 
caught  sight  of  a  tiny  ray  of  red   light, 


scarce  larger  than  a  thread,  streaming  out 
through  the  darkness  above  him,  and  visible 
through  the  interstices  of  a  broken  "loft." 
Adolphe  would  climb  up  and  see.  He  had 
often  gone  up  there  be*t>re  with  the  boys 
when  playing  "  FoUow-your-leader."  His 
heart  was  throbbing  until  he  fancied  he 
could  hear  it.  He  slipped  to  the  end  of  the 
shed  and  drew  himself  up  by  the  beams  and 
supports.  Then  he  crept  along  until  the  lit- 
tle hole  whence  the  tiny  ray  issued  was  ac- 
cessible. 

He  placed  his  eye  to  it.  The  stone-work 
had  cracked,  and,  at  one  point,  the  opening 
went  clear  through  to  the  room  below.  Of 
a  portion  of  this  room  Adolphe  had  a  dis- 
tinct view.  It  was  filled  with  red  fumes, 
and  a  pungent  odor  of  chemicals  came  up 
even  through  the  crevice.  But  what  he  saw 
distinctly  was  a  part  of  a  table,  and  upon 
it  a  variety  of  instruments  of  whose  use 
Adolphe  had  not  the  slightest  idea.  Pres- 
ently the  old  man  came  beside  the  table, 
and  stood  directly  in  view.  Adolphe  could 
not  see  the  face  very  distinctly,  but  noted 
the  summer  overcoat  of  black  and  the  round, 
black  cap.  The  old  hands,  which  were  thin 
and  trembling,  were  busied  with  the  appara- 
tus on  the  table,  and,  to  Adolphe's  great 
astonishment,  he  saw  them  take,  from  be- 
neath a  sort  af  press,  what  appeared  to  be  a 
crisp,  new  bill.  Like  a  flash  it  came  upon 
the  boy  that  this  was  spurious  money.  He 
almost  caueht  his  breath  in  astonishment. 

"Whew!"  he  exclaimed  to  himself,  "dat 
ole  duffer  knows  how  to  make  money.  He 
mus'  be  a  bad  wan,  no  mistake!" 

The  old  man  below  worked  away,  all  un- 
conscious of  the  bright  eyes  above  that  we  ". 
eagerly  watching  his  every  movement. 
Meanwhile,  Adolphe's  acute  brain  was  prob- 
ing the  consequences  of  all  this,  and  revolv- 
ing what  his  own  course  of  action  In  regard 
to  the  matter  should  be.  v 

"I  ought  to  make  a  stop  to  dls  leetle 
game,"  he  was  saying  to  himself.  "  De  p'lice 
ought   to   know    about    it.    Now,    Adolphe 


«;■. 


mmm 


ng  out 

visible 

"  loft." 

ie  had 

|e  boys 

"     His 

led   he 

of  the 

ms  and 

the  lit- 

w&B  ac- 

le-work 
opening 
ow.  Of 
i  a  dis- 
fumes, 
ame  up 
he  saw 
id  upon 
ose  use 
I.  Pres- 
e  table, 
le  could 
it  noted 
e  round, 
ere  thin 
appara- 
!'s  great 
!rom  be- 
1  to  be  a 
me  upon 
oey.  He 
bment. 
!lf,  "dat 
ney.    He 

',  all  un- 
hat  we  ' 
ovement, 
fas  prob- 
d  revolv- 
n  regard 

lis  leetle 

De  p'lice 

/idolphe 


W- 


mmmm 


A  8  TAB   IN  A  PRISON. 


23 


Belleau,  what  mus'  you  do?  If  >ou  tell 
de  p'lice  somebody  will  pound  you  for  It, 
sure.  De  aristocracy  of  de  Champs  Elysees, 
dey  not  make  toleration  for  any  wan  who 
gets  too  intimate  wit'  de  p'lice," 

He  pushed  his  cap  back  off  his  forehead, 
and  drew  his  brow  down  in  his  dilemma. 

"  Dere's  no  'aelp  for  it,"  he  determined. 
"  I  mus'  tell  about  dis.  I'll  run  across  de 
Champs,  an'  if  dere's  no  p'lice  about,  I'll  go 
on  to  de  city  above." 

Cautiously  he  crept  down  from  the  loft, 
noiselessly  he  glided  through  the  shed,  and 
then  his  bare  feet  pattered  off,  swift  as  those 
of  a  young  deer,  through  the  dark,  narrow 
streets  of  the  quarter  which  he  had  called 
"  de  Champs  Elysees."  He  began  to  feel 
quite  important.  It  was  not  every  day  that 
he  discovered  a  counterfeiter. 

"  Mebbe  de  p'lice  will  give  me  dollar  for 
dis,"  he  said,  with  business-like  foresight; 
then,  with  a  burst  of  patriotism,  "  But,  if  he 
don't,  It  will  be  all  correc'.  Adolphe  Belleau 
can  do  «o  much  as  dat  gratis  for  de  sake 
of  de  state.  I  say,  Monsieur  Belleau,  but 
you  are  to  become  of  importance.  You  are 
jus'  going  to  render  a  favor  to  de  govern- 
ment. Mebbe  you'll  be  on  de  civil  service 
yet."       , 

So  saying  he  emerged  from  "  de  Champs," 
and  sped  through  a  long,  narrow  alley.  At 
the  end  of  it  he  came  to  a  sudden  stop,  and 
an  event  happened  which  proved  in  the 
future  to  be  of  some  importance. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

DR.    KEITH   CAMERON. 

ET  US  now  look,  for  a  time,  upon  this 
u       Dr.  Keith  Cameron,  of  whom  Adolphe 
and  Georgie  had  spoken  in  such  glow- 
ing terms,  a  man  who  was  destined  to  hold 
a  rather  close  relation  to  all  that  concerns 
our  story,  and  who  became,  somewhat  un- 


T 


willingly,  considerably  involved  in  Adolphe's 
experience  at  the  counterfeiting  den.  Let 
us,  then,  glance  at  him  first  in  his  home, 
then  follow  him  on  through  his  meeting 
with  the  French  boy. 

Upon  Elgin  street,  but  a  few  blocks  down 
from  the  clatter  of  the  business  part  of  the 
city,  stood  a  gray  stone  house  of  massive 
appearance.  It  was  rather  square  and 
heavy-looking,  perhaps,  yet  it  had  an  air  of 
dignity  foreign  to  the  turreted  and  porticoed 
structures  about  it.  Across  the  front 
stretched  a  spacious  veranda,  whose  roof 
was  supported  by  gray  granite  pillars,  the 
capital  of  each  being  formed  of  a  solid  slab 
of  stone,  fancifully  carved  with  intertwining 
maple  leaves,  roses,  thistles  and  shamrocks. 
Broad  stone  steps  ascended  towards  the 
arched  doorway.  A  few  shrubs  and  over- 
hanging chestnut  trees  bordered  the  walk 
leading  to  the  steps,  and  a  graceful  naiad  of 
white  marble  stood  in  a  small  fountain  be- 
hind the  shrubbery  on  either  side. 

Moreover  —  what  a  dignitary  is  title!  —  not 
a  little  of  the  imposing  air  of  the  place  was 
due  to  a  pretentious  door-plate,  on  which 
was  inscribed  in  bold  letters,  "  Sir  Allan 
Cameron,  M.  D."  Now,  be  it  said,  Sir  Allan 
Cameron  was,  at  this  time,  no  longer  in  the 
land  of  the  living,  nor  had  been  for  a  period 
of  some  ten  years.  But  the  door-plate  re- 
mained still. 

The  knight's  fortune,  as  well  as  his  prac- 
tice, had  descended  to  his  son,  Keith,  with 
whom  society  was  very  well  pleased  indeed. 
So  were  the  sick.  Hence,  on  the  whole.  Dr. 
Keith  Cameron  might  have  been  called  a 
very  successful  man.  In  spite  of  the 
"  posthumous "  door-plnte,  for  which  his 
mother  was  responsible,  Keith  was  a  very 
sensible  man,  too,  with  a  great,  kind  heart, 
and  a  level  head. 

Upon  the  evening  of  that  night  in  which 
Adolphe  made  his  discovery,  Keith  stepped 
out  upon  the  veranda,  buttoning  up  his  coat, 
and  looking  dubiously,  first  at  the  sky,  then 
at  the  little  pools  of  water  that  lay  in  the 


24 


A   STAB   IN  A   FBI  SON. 


street;  for  It  had  been  raining,  and  water- 
drops  were  still  dripping  from  the  points  of 
the  chestnut  leaves,  and  trickling  disconso- 
lately down  the  faces  of  the  naiads,  like 
pearly  tears.  The  sky  was  gray  above, 
and  ominous  masses  of  cloud  were  crowding 
up  the  eastern  horizon,  but  Keith  did  not 
hesftate. 

Throwing  back  his  shoulders,  with  that 
imperial  dignity  which  suited  him  so  well, 
he  started  off  up  the  street,  rejoicing  In  his 
strength  and  the  full  vigor  of  the  prime  of 
manhood.  He  was  going,  this  evening,  to 
vlfcit  his  poor,  and,  when  working  among 
them,  he  seldom  went  In  his  carriage.  It 
seemed  that  he  could  get  closer  to  their 
hearts  when  he  went  unattended  by  any 
sign  of  wealth  or  luxury.  And  Dr.  Cameron 
thought  it  no  small  matter  to  get  thoroughly 
acquainted  with  his  people.  He  aimed,  not 
only  at  healing  their  bodies,  but  at  touching 
their  hearts  and  uplifting  their  minds. 

After  a  brisk  walk  across  the  bridge  and 
down  the  brilliantly  lighted  avenue  of 
Rideau  Street,  he  turned  northward,  and 
went  on,  on.  Into  the  vicinity  of  the  poorest 
and  most  filthy  part  of  Lower  Town. 

Do  not  wonder  that  this  fashionable 
physician  shrank  not  from  such  quarters. 
His  heart  was  not  smothered  amid  the 
blandishments  of  wealth  and  favor.  He  bad 
been  petted  and  courted  and  lionized  by  the 
most  exclusive  society  of  the  city.  He  had 
ridden  in  his  luxurious  carriage  to  attend 
the  Governor  General  at  Rideau  Hall,  or  to 
be  present  at  her  Ladyship's  levees.  With 
not  less  pleasure,  but  infinitely  more,  he  now 
went,  on  foot,  to  carry  hope  and  tenderness 
into  the  wretched  halls  of  poverty. 

He  had  many  calls  to  make,  and  was  de- 
layed far  into  the  night.  Wearied  in 
both  body  and  mind,  he  was,  at  last,  about 
to  go  home  when  he  stddenly  thought 
of  Agnes  Belleau,  whom  he  had  not  yet 
visited,  and  whose  case  required  much  atten- 
tion. He  could  not  think  of  going  home  to- 
night   without    seeing    her,    so    he    turned 


down  a  side  street,  an  1  attempted  to  find  a 
short  way  to  her  home. 

His  way  led  him  Into  a  broad  and  forlorn 
avenue,  bordered  by  rickety  houses,  and 
almost  destitute  of  light,  save  that  of  the 
stars  above,  and  the  reflection  from  street 
lamps  In  the  distance.  This  desolate  spot 
looked  as  if  It  had  been  Intended,  In  some 
palmy  day  of  yore,  for  a  boulevard,  for  a 
few  rows  of  straggling  and  neglected  trees 
extended  along  It,  reaching,  as  It  were,  their 
gnarled  and  ragged  arms  aloft  towardf  a 
purer  atmosphere  than  that  surround!  g 
the  squalid  houses  below. 

Keith  followed  a  somewhat  well-trodden 
path  down  the  side  of  it,  hoping  to  reach  a 
cross  street  which  might  lead  to  the  quarter 
for  which  he  was  in  search.  No  such  open- 
ing appeared.  This  locality  was  new  to  him 
No  one  from  whom  he  might  Inquire  the 
way  was  In  sight,  and  the  sound  of  a  rude 
voice  singing  somewhere,  was  the  only  defin- 
able noise  that  reached  his  ear. 

He  paused.  The  trees  above  creaked  dis- 
mally. Dank  vapors  ascended  from  the  sod- 
den ground  below.  Keith  almost  shuddered 
with  an  involuntary  horror  of  the  place.  He 
was  about  to  retrace  his  steps,  when  some 
one  sprang  suddenly  out  from  a  hidden  spot 
near  him,  and  stood  directly  In  his  way, 
peering  Into  his  face. 

Keith  started  and  braced  himself.  This 
behavior  was  unusual.  It  was  suspicious. 
Just  such  a  place  as  this  had  often  been  the 
scone  of  robbery  and  crime.  Keith  was  not 
a  coward,  by  any  means,  but  hia  pulse  beat 
a  little  faster  than  usual.  Then  he  smiled 
at  his  fears.  This  mysterious  visitant  from 
the  gloom  was  surely  but  a  mere  lad.  He 
was,  at  least,  much  shorter  than  Keith. 
Keith's  surprise  had  magnified  the  danger. 

Then  a  voice  spoke. 

"  Are  you  de  genteelman  w'at  'tends  our 
Agnes?" 

"  Why,  Adolphe!"  returned  the  doctor,  "  Is 
it  you?  What  Is  the  matter?  Is  Agnes 
worse?    Will  you  take  me  to  her?" 


s""i;i_!iiM.;.T  1 


w^m 


A   STAR    IN  A   PRISON. 


25 


find  a 

forlorn 
s,  and 
of  the 

street 
te  spot 
n  some 

for  a 
d  trees 
e,  their 
rardf  a 
)undi  g 

trodden 
reach  a 
quarter 
h  open- 
to  him 
lire  the 
a  rude 
ly  defln- 

ked  dls- 
the  sod- 
tuddered 
ace.  He 
en  some 
den  spot 
lis  way, 

If.  This 
ispicious. 
been  the 

was  not 
ulse  beat 
e  smiled 
ant  from 

lad.  He 
n  Keith, 
danger. 

ends  our 

3Ctor,  "  Is 
[s    Agnes 


**  Yes  —  no  —  yes.  Why  do  not  you  ask 
wan  question  at  a  time?"  laughed  the  boy. 
"  De  saints  preserve  us!  but  you  remind  to 
myself  of  old  Madame  Benoit.  She  say. 
'Good-day,  Monsieur  Belleau;  how  pretty 
you  do  look  to-day!'  Monsieur  Adolphe,  he 
say,  '  Good-day,  Madame  Benoit,'  politely, 
so.  Den  she  say,  *  Mademoiselle,  your  sister, 
is  she  well?'  Adolphe  he  try  answer,  but 
she  say,  '  Have  you  been  up  to  de  city  to- 
day? Will  you  run  for  me  just  wan  leetle 
errand  to  de  square  of  de  market?  Very 
good.  Monsieur  Adolphe  mus',  of  course,  go 
for  so  polite  a  lady." 

•' Is  Agnes  worse?"  ^i      : 

"  Oh,  but  no!  For  why  you  not  listen  w'eu 
I  tell  you  so?" 

"Then  what  do  you  want  of  me?  I  was 
looking  for  your  house." 

"  I  tell  you  den.  I  want  to  gi  v^e  you 
leetle  peep  -  show,  better  dan  de  theater. 
Come." 

"  Nonsense,  Adolphe!  I  have  no  time  to 
waste.  If  there  is  a  short  way  from  this  to 
your  home,  take  me  to  it  at  once." 

"  But  no.  Monsieur,  you  come  wit'  me." 

"  But—" 

"  See,  Dr.  Cameron,"  interrupted  the  boy, 
seizing  the  doctor's  arm,  and  lowering  his 
voice  mysteriously,  "  dere's  deviltry  in  it,  or 
call  me  no  more  Adolphe  Belleau!" 

•'  Well,  then,  tell  the  police." 

"Tell  de  p'llcc  w'en  I  find  chance  to  get 
out  of  it!  And  let  Adolphe  Belleau  get  hees 
dear  leetle  bones  broken  for  my  pains!  No, 
no!  You  see,  de  people  In  dls  Champs 
Elysees,  dey  not  like  de  p'llce.  Dey  very 
angry  w'en  anyone  tell  tales  to  dem  about 
anyt'lng.  Adolphe  he  tell  de  p'llce.  Some- 
body find  out  about  It.  Adolphe  he  get 
t'rashed  some  fine  day.  But  Dr.  Cameron, 
he  not  have  de  privilege  to  leev  near  de 
Champs  Elysees.  He  tell  de  p'llce  — all 
serene,  all  very  fair  and  good." 

"What  is  it,  then?    Be  quick,  boy!" 

"Come;  It  Is  not  very  far." 

The  boy  was  off,  and  Keith  followed  him. 


half-curious,  half-annoyed.  Down  a  side 
alley,  In  and  out  between  low  houses,  and 
through  dark  streets  shaded  with  over- 
hanglug  willows,  they  went.  On  and  on, 
now  one  turn,  now  another,  then  across  the 
common,  until  a  close  yard,  back  of  a  low, 
small,  solid-looking  stone  house,  was 
reached. 

"  Now,  behold  de  Grand  Opera  House!" 
whispered  Adolphe.  "  You  and  I  will  have 
de  box  seats.  But,  silent,  quiet,  no  applause, 
mind!" 

All  was  dark  and  quiet  about  the  house. 
Silently  Keith  and  his  guide  crept  up  to  it, 
Keith  wondering  If  he  were  not  being  made 
the  victim  oi  a  practical  joke.  Into  the  shed 
they  went,  but  no  ray  of  light  appearel. 
Then  up  on  the  loft;  not  a  sight  or  Lound  of 
life  was  about  the  place. 

"  I  guess  de  ole  feller  has  skipped,"  whis- 
pered Adolplie.  "  He  was  preety  quick  about 
it." 

After  a  long  and  fruitless  wait,  the  two 
came  down,  and  proceeded  back  towards  the 
"  Champs  Elysees,"  Adolphe  describing 
vividly,  meanwhile,  the  scene  which  he  had 
witnessed. 

"  You  are  not  playing  a  trick  upon  me,  are 
you.  Adolphe?"  asked  Keith. 

"  For  sure  no,  Mt)nsleur,"  declared  Adolphe 
emphaticall3|^.  "  For  w'at  reason  would  I 
play  on  you  a  treeck.  or  tell  to  you  lies?" 

The  lad  spoke  in  such  a  tone,  and  with 
such  a  genuinely  indignant  air,  that  Keith 
knew  he  was  telling  the  .ruth.  Moreover  he 
had  heard,  lately,  rumors  of  the  circulation 
of  couuverfeit  bills. 

"  Believe  me.  Monsieur,"  continued  the 
French  boy,  "  I  was  on  my  way  to  tell  de 
p'llce  w'en  I  meet  you.  I  t'ink  more  wise, 
more  safe,  for  you  to  tell  dem." 

Adolphe  paused  at  the  door  of  a  low, 
rather  respectable-looking  cottage,  with  his 
hand  on  the  latoh. 

"  Your  evidence  will  be  called  Into  the 
case  anyway,  Adolphe,"  said  the  doctor, 
quietly.    "Come  to  my  house  the  first  thing 


26 


A  STAB   IN  A  PRISON. 


in  the  morning,  and  we  will  go  together  to 
the  Police  Departiueut." 

"Ye8,  Monsieur."  said  Adolphe,  without 
further  remonstrance.  When  Dr.  Cameron 
spoke  in  that  way  he  could  not  choose  but 
obey.  Moreover,  he  had  unlimited  confi- 
dence in  Dr.  Cameron's  Judgment  as  to  what 
was  best  in  all  things. 

Together  they  entered  the  cottage.  Dr. 
Cameron  found  that  the  girl  was  improving 
under  the  care  of  the  woman  who  occupied 
the  other  part  of  the  house,  and  who  stayed 
with  Agnes  constantly  when  her  brother  was 
out.  Keith  had  once  urged  upon  the  girl 
the  advisability  of  going  to  a  hospital,  but 
she  had  persistently  refused. 

"  Dey  would  not  let  Adolphe  stay  wif 
me,"  she  said,  weeping  at  the  thought  of 
separation.  So  Keith  had  consented  to  her 
remaining  where  she  was.  The  affection  be- 
tween this  brother  and  sister  was  a  beauti- 
ful thing,  and  the  very  strength  of  that  love 
which  Agnes  bore  for  her  younger  brother 
helped  her  in  the  recovery  from  her  long, 
painful  illness. 

As  Keith  left  the  house,  his  mind  reverted 
again  to  the  strange  story  which  the 
French  boy  had  told  him.  He  felt  that  he 
must  place  the  affair  at  once  with  the 
authorities.  Then  he  would  be  conscience- 
clear.  But  nis  heart  was  very  sore.  The  sin 
of  the  old  man,  as  well  as  the  suffering 
which  now  must  certainly  follow,  cut  t!m  to 
the  heart.  "  Oh,  I  am  weary,  wear,  of  sin 
and  its  consequences!"  he  said  to  himself. 
"  Turn  where  one  will,  it  is  still  there."  He 
thought  of  this  old  man  until  he  almost 
seemed  to  see  him.  hiding  there  in  the  dark- 
ness, to  work  his  deed  of  shame.  Alas!  was 
not  this  man  but  one  of  the  myriads  of 
earth  who,  in  different  ways,  were  working 
away  for  the  deception  of  mankind,  well 
content  if  the  outside  world  might  pass  by, 
mistaking  the  false  for  the  true? 

Why,  why  were  not  these  men  conscious 
that  the  fruit  of  their  work  must  finally  in- 
jure, not  others,  but  themselves;  that  the 


greatest  crime  they  could  commit  would  be 
the  wasting  of  a  life  which  God  had  created? 
Ah,  what  awful  results  flowed  from  a  mis* 
taken  conception  of  that  which  is  worth  se- 
curing in  life!  How  the  glamour  of  the 
seai'ch  for  wealth,  for  fame,  for  selfish 
advancement,  dazzled  men's  eyes,  making 
everything  of  that  which  was  only  perish- 
able! The  inner  life,  the  character, — 
what  of  it?  Let  it  alone,  since  it  is  hidden. 
The  present  is  sufiicient  unto  us.  Let  us 
eat,  drink  and  be  merry!  Never  mind  the 
divine  nature  in  us!  Let  it  go  and  give  place 
to  a  devil!  Let  us  amass  the  treasures  of 
this  world,  that  all  men  may  point  to  us  and 
say,  "There  is  a  successful  man!"  "There 
is  a  learned  man!"  "There  is  a  clever 
man!" 

Keith  would  have  been  one  of  the  last  to 
decry  the  pleasant  things  of  earth  in  this 
line.  He  believed  in  having  comfort  and 
beauty  in  our  homes.  He  believed  in  money 
earned  honestly.  He  believed  in  the  acquire- 
ment of  knowledge,  and  In  the  skillful  use 
of  a  clever  brain.  These  things  were  good. 
It  was  both  lawful  and  honorable  to  pursue 
them.  But  this  must  not  be  done  selfishly. 
A  man  must  not  strive  for  the  sake  of  set- 
ting himself  upon  a  pedestal,  but  in  order 
that  he  might  become  of  the  greatest  pos- 
sible use  to  the  greatest  possible  number  of 
people  in  the  world.  This  was  one  of  man's 
highest  privileges.  Keith  was  sure  of  this.  He 
regarded  money,  talent,  brain,  as  sacred 
trusts,  not  as  excrescences  of  self.  Keith's 
mind  would  bow,  with  the  profoundest 
reverence,  before  the  most  obscure  indi- 
vidual whom  one  pointed  out  as  good. 
"Behold,"  he  would  say  to  himself,  "an 
unselfish  man,  a  man  of  character."  And  he 
would  feel  as  though  the  sight  of  this  man 
bad  brought  him  nearer  Ood. 

When  he  reached  home  that  night,  he 
threw  himself  down  upon  his  bed,  but  for  a 
long  time  sleep  would  not  visit  him.  He 
dreaded  to  expose  this  trembling,  aged  man. 
He  wondered  what  the  effect  would  be  upon 


A  STAB   IN  A  PBISON. 


27 


the  old,  shattered  nerves.  Yet  the  thing 
must  be  doncs 

At  last  he  fell  Into  a  heavy  sleep,  and, 
as  had  been  arranged,  early  next  morning 
he  and  Adolphe  proceeded  to  the  office  of 
the  Chief  of  the  Police  Department,  and 
laid  what  information  they  possessed  before 
Chief  Watson. 

During  the  day  the  house  was  examined, 
and  everything  found  to  be  as  Adolphe  had 
stated.  Then  the  barricades  were  carefully 
replaced,  and  the  ferreting  out  of  the  case 
given  to  a  little  detective  by  the  name  of 
Sanders,  who  at  once  proceeded  to  talce 
active  measures  for  the  detection  of  the 
culprit. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  ESCAPE  OF  HERMANN  AND  GERTRUDE. 

HEN  Wilhelm  came  to 
the  gate  of  his  home 
that  evening,  after 
his  visit  to  the  field, 
lights  were  already 
glimmering  from  the 
windows.  The  place 
looked  inviting  and 
home-like  as  ever, 
yet  to-night  he  feared 
to  enter  it.  It  seemed 

as  thoufjh  a  teriible  pall  were  hanging  over 

and  abiut  it.    He  could  see  that  Gertrude 

was  standing  in  the  door. 
"Where  is  grandfather?"  he  asked,  as  he 

neared  her. 
"  In  the  laboratory,"  she  replied,  with  a 

smile. 
He  went  on  up  the  stairs.  She  noticed  how 

haggai'd  was  his  face,  and  withdrew  with 

a  sharp  pang  at  her  heart,  for  she  attributed 

It  all  to  her  refusal  of  his  proposal. 
On    reaching    the    door    above,    Wilhelm 

hesitated  a  mom  "it,  then  knocked  with  a 

sudden  decision. 


"  Come!"  called  a  weak  voice. 

Wilhelm  went  in. 

The  room  was  filled  with  retorts,  mortars 
and  other  chemical  appliances.  Book- 
shelves, filled  with  scientific  works,  were 
about.  Hermann,  wearing  his  black  skull- 
cap, was  sitting  In  an  easy-chair.  A  paper, 
upon  which  he  had  been  making  computa- 
tions, was  before  him.  He  looked  up  with 
piercing  black  eyes  from  beneath  shaggy 
eyebrows. 

"I  tell  you,  Wilhelm,"  he  said,  tremu- 
lously, while  a  triumphant  light  beamed 
from  his  countenance,  "  I'll  have  a  fortune 
for  Gertrude  yet!  Yes,  she'll  be  able  to 
shine  with  the  greatest  lady  in  the  land! 
My  last  two  inventions  are  nearly  com- 
pleted. There'll  be  fortune  for  you  both  in 
them,  maybe." 

"Yes?"  said  Wilhelm,  absently.  "You 
haven't  told  mo  of  them." 

The  old  man  leaned  forward,  and,  raising 
one  bony  finger,  said  in  an  Impressive  whis- 
per: 

"  No,  because  I  wanted  to  be  reasonably 
sure  of  success  before  telling  you.  It  goes 
to  my  heart  to  see  young  hopes  dashed.  Yon 
know,  Wilhelm,  how  often  I  have  hoped  in 
vain.  But  this  time  I  have  little  to  fear. 
There  Is  just  one  trifie  In  each  necessary  to 
perfect  th€?m.  I  am  telling  you  this,  Wil- 
helm, so  that  J  on  may.  perhaps,  be  able  to 
assist  me  In  ferreting  out  this  little  catch 
which  still  bothers  me." 

"What  are  these  inventions?"  asked 
Wilhelm,  still  in  the  same  absent-minded 
way.  He  was  wondering  how  to  broach  the 
thing  he  feared. 

"  My  inventions?  One  is  for  the  better 
ventilation  of  large  audience  halls;  that  Is 
a  fortune  In  Itself.  The  other  is  for  making 
brick  out  of  common  clay;  that  will  be  a 
priceless  boon  to  this  coup'^,  as  you  may 
readily  see." 

Wilhelm  looked  at  him  sharply.  Surely 
this  enthusiastic  old  man,  innocently  carry- 
ing on  his  experiments  here,  absorbed,  mind 


28 


A   STAR    IN  A   PRISON. 


and  soul,  lu  his  Innocent  work,  could  have 
nc  crime  on  his  conscience.  No!  Hermann 
Sielnhoff  must  be  Innocent.  Wllhelm  had 
d(»ne  him  a  great  wrong  In  having  harbored 
even  a  doubt  of  him. 

A  burden  seemed  to  roll  ofif  the  young 
man.  The  cloud  left  his  face.  He  smiled, 
and  listened  with  interest  to  a  description 
of  the  "  Inventions,"  which,  like  many  other 
ideas  of  the  old  scientist,  seemed  exceed- 
ingly^plauslble;  so  surprisingly  so,  in  fact, 
that  Wllhelm  recognized  the  possibility  of 
their  completion. 

"You  are  very  happy  in  your  work, 
grandfather?"  he  remarked. 

"Why,  b'.ess  your  heart,  yes!"  replied  the 
old  man.  "If  1  had  the  faintest  idea  of 
ever  reaching  heaven,  I'd  want  it  to  be  one 
big  laboratory." 

Wllhelm  smiled  sadly.  He  knew  very 
well  that  Hermann  SteinhofC  had  no  belief 
in  the  after-life. 

"  There's  an  old  man  In  Lower  Town,"  he 
said,  "  about  your  age,  I  should  judge,  who, 
it  seems,  has  been  trying  experiments  of  a 
different  nature  lately.  If  what  I  have 
heard  is  true,  which  may  not  be,  a  detective 
is  now  on  his  track.  He  is  a  counter- 
feiter." 

The  words  had  'scarcely  passed  Wilhelm's 
lips,  when  he  sprang  up  In  horrOt. 

The  old  man  was  leaning  towards  him 
with  uplifted  hands.  His  pallid  face  was 
the  color. of  ivory.  His  eyes  were  glaring 
with  unnatural  brilliancy,  and  his  mouth 
had  fallen  open  in  terror.  But  for  the  lurid, 
glaring  eyes,  Wllhelm  might  have  judged 
him  frozen  in  death. 

"What  is  the  matter,  grandfather?"  he 
cried,  seizing  him  by  the  shoulder. 

The  old  man  staggered  to  his  feet,  and 
grasped  Wllhelm  about  the  neck. 

"Wllhelm,"  he  said.  In  an  agonized  whis- 
per, "  help  me  to  get  away!  I  did  it  for 
Gertrude's  sake!  Don't  let  them  get  me! 
The  disgrace  would  kill  her!  Save  us! 
Save  ua!" 


Every  word  fell  like  a  blow  upon  Wil- 
helm's heart.  A  momentary  revulsion  of  feel- 
ing for  this  trembling  old  man  seized  him. 
He  struck  the  tottering  form  from  him, 
without  realizing  what  he  did.  The  old 
man's  head  hit  against  the  corner  of  a  shelf, 
and  a  thin,  ci'imson  stream  tr'ckled  down 
the  marble  forehead.  Wllhelm  sprang  for- 
ward. 

"  Oh,  what  have  I  done!"  exclaimed 
he,  and,  with  a  sudden  reaction  of  emo- 
tion, he  caught  the  old  man  in  his  arms 
and  pressed  him  to  his  breast  as  though  be 
were  a  little  child. 

"  Oh,  grandfather!"  he  cried,  "  how  could 
you  — -  how  could  you  do  it?  How,  in 
the  name  of  mercy,  am  I  to  save  you 
now?" 

"  It  was  for  Gertrude's  sake!"  replied  the 
old  man.  "  I  thought  my  imitation  so 
true  that  it  would  not  be  discovered.  1 
never  dreamed  of  danger  otherwise.  I 
wanted  to  save  rJl  the  money  I  could  for 
Gertrude!" 

Wilhelm  was  white  as  death.  He  had 
loved  and  trusted  this  old  man,  and  he  was 
proving  unworthy  of  trust.  Moreover,  this 
thing  would  bring  disgrace  arid  sorrow  to 
Gertrude,  who  loved  him  and  trusted  him 
still  more.  How  could  she  bear  it?  Wil- 
helm's whole  being  was  fairly  swayed 
with  conflicting  emotions.  He  felt  as 
though  all  things  were  slipping  from  be- 
neath his  feet. 

Meanwhile,  Hermann  StelnhoflP  was  think- 
ing deeply.  A  brighter  look  was  stealing 
over  his  face,  and  his  body  seemed  to  be 
gaining  strength. 

"Ha!"  he  exclaimed,  at  last.  "We  will 
escape  them  yet.  Gertie  and  I.  Give  us 
this  one  night's  start,  and  I  believe  we  can 
do  It.  I  know  a  thing  or  two  yet.  Wllhelm, 
do  you  go  and  make  ready  the  pony  and 
carriage." 

"  But  Gertrude  —  you  will  not  take  Ger- 
trude!" said  Wilhelm. 

"Certainly,"  returned  Hermann.    "I  will 


A   STAB   IN  A   PBISON. 


29 


tell  hor  to  get  her  things  together  at  once. 
Now,  get  the  carriage," 

Wllhelm,  half-dazed,  went  out  to  do  the 
old  man's  bidding.  For  the  time  he  was  in- 
capable of  thought  or  of  reason.  He  was 
conscious  only  of  a  terrible  calamity  hang- 
ing over  Hermann 
and  his  grand- 
da  lighter,  and  of  a 
wild  desire  for  their 
escape.  He  acted 
with  feverish  haste 
and  as  If  In  a 
dream.  It  seemed 
as  though  It  was 
not  he,  but  some 
one  else,  who  was 
harnessing  the 
horse  and  arrang- 
ing the  carriage 
robes. 

In  the  meantime, 
Hermann  had  ap- 
prized Gertrude  of 
the  fact  that  she 
was  to  gather  her 
clothes  together  im- 
mediately. In  order 
to  set  out  upon  a 
long  journey  with 
him.  More  than 
this  he  would  not 
tell  her,  and  the 
wondering  girl 
hastily  collected 
her  wardrobe,  with 
a  strange  sense  of 
fear  at  her  heart. 

When  Wilhelm  entered,  the  old  man  was 
sitting  with  his  head!  bowed  on  his  hands 
in  an  attitude  of  greatest  dejection.  He 
looked  up  and  tried  to  speak,  but  the  words 
would  not  come.  At  that  moment  he  was 
experiencing  to  the  full  the  retribution  that 
is  the  ine  itable  consequence  of  wrong- 
doing. At  last  he  broke  down  utterly  and 
wept. 


"  Do  not  (lespipe  me  altogether,  Wllhelm!" 
he  said,  brokenly. 

The  young  man  knelt  lieslde  him.  "  Grand- 
father." he  said,  "  this  thing  has  been  a 
great  evil,  but  tliere  is  forgiveness  for  you 
still,  if  you  will  lay  hold  upon  it." 


"What  is  the  matter,  grandfather?"  he  cried.— See  page  28. 


The  old  man  shook  his  head  quickly.  "It 
is  not  for  that  I  weep,"  he  said,  "but  for 
the  ruin  and  desolation  I  have  brought  upon 
my  little  girl,  and  the  sorrow  I  have  caused 
you,  lad.  For  myself,  my  evil  deeds  die 
with  me.  Yet—"  He  paused  and  looked 
at  the  young  man  somewhat  wistfully,— 
"  Keep  your  religion,  lad.  When  men  are 
sincere    in    it,     it    seems    to    keep     them 


30 


A  STAB   IN  A   PRISON. 


straight,  aye,"  be  added,  half  beneath  bis 
breath. 

Wllhelm  Icnew  not  what  to  say.  lie  was 
thlniiing  of  Gertrude.  "  Do  you  not  thinlc  it 
would  be  well  to  leave  Gertrude  some  place 
here?"  he  asked  at  length. 

The  old  man's  face  brightened.  "A  few 
moments  ago  I  gave  her  her  choice,"  he  re- 
plied. "  She  chose  to  come  with  me,  bless 
her!" 

"  At  least,  grandfather,"  pleaded  Wllhelm, 
"will  you  not  tell  me  where  you  are  going?" 

The  old  man  did  not  answer  his  question. 
"  Go,  ffo!    See  if  Gertrude  Is  ready,"  he  said. 

The  young  man  left  the  room  and  knocked 
at  Gertrude's  door.  She  came  out  into  the 
hall,  and  he  saw  that  she  had  been  weeping. 
But  she  was  v*  ry  calm. 

"Wllhelm,  something  dreadful  has  hap- 
pened!—I  know  It,"  she  said.  "Tell  me 
what  it  is.  Nothing  can  be  so  terrible  as  this 
suspense." 

He  took  her  hands  in  his,  gently,  timidly, 
as  though  they  were  something  sacred. 

"I  cannot  tell  you,  little  one,"  he  said. 
"  Gertrude,  Gertrude,  it  may  be  long  before 
I  can  see  you  again,  but  I  will  seek  you  to 
the  ends  of  the  earth!  Gertrude,  even  at 
this  farewell,  can  you  give  me  no  hope?" 

"  Wllhelm,"  she  answered.  In  a  low  voice, 
"  seek  me  as  my  brother." 

The  quiet  words  sank  upon  Wllhelm  as  a 
death  -  blow  to  his  short,  sweet  dream  of 
ever  possessing  Gertrude  as  his  wife. 

"I  will,  I  will!"  was  all  his  reply,  "  mv 
sister!"  He  kissed  her  once,  and  they  two 
went  down  the  stairs  together  and  out  into 
the  calm  night,  where  the  light  carriage 
stood  waiting  in  the  darkness.  Hermann 
was  already  there.  For  one  moment  the  old 
hand  rested  in  Wilhelm's  young,  warm 
grasp,  then  the  horse  was  started,  the 
wheels  rattle!  on  the  driveway,  and  Wll- 
helm was  alone,  crushed,  almost  beside  him- 
self, with  the  weight  of  this,  his  first  great 
trouble. 

Mechanically    he   tm*ned    the    key    which 


Hermann  had  left  in  the  door,  and  put  the 
bunch  in  his  pocket.  Mechanically  he 
walked  out  upon  the  street  and  turned  his 
steps  towards  the  house  in  Lower  Town, 
whose  location  he  had  overheard  Adolphe 
describing  to  Georgie.  He  did  not  know 
why  he  was  going  there.  He  felt  dazed  and 
almost  delirious.  He  had  not  been  as  well 
as  usual  lately,  and  the  occurrences  of  this 
day  had  wrought  upon  him  terribly.  He 
had  a  sort  of  vague  consciousness  that  he 
was  going  thither  in  the  hope  that  all  might 
not  be  as  bad  as  he  imagined.  He  would  see 
for  himself,  at  any  rate.  In  the  excited 
condition  of  his  mind,  it  never  dawned  upon 
him  that  he  was  about  to  do  a  very  danger- 
ous thing,  because,  in  all  probability,  the 
house  was  even  then  being  watched.  His 
brow  grew  ever  more  feverish,  his  pulses 
beat  painfully,  his  steps  grew  faster  and 
faster. 

Ah,  here  was  the  common,  here  was  the 
willow-shaded  street,  here  was  the  lonely 
house!  He  examined  the  barricade  at  the 
back,  and,  knowing  that  it  could  be  easily 
removed,  was  not  long  in  discovering  that  a 
lift  upward  and  outward  was  suflBcient  to 
remove  it  in  one  piece.  He  then  felt  the 
padlock.  Mecht  nically  his  hand  sor^ht  the 
bunch  of  key&  in  his  pocket.  He  tried  one 
key  after  another,  and  at  last  one  turned. 
He  went  in  and  struck  a  match.  A  lamp 
was  on  the  table  near.  He  lit  it,  and  closed 
the  door  without  realizing  that  he  did  so. 
Then  he  looked  about  him.  Ah,  yes,  there 
was  the  apparatus,  curiously  formed,  which, 
in  all  probability,  had  been  used  for  the  old 
man's  criminal  purpose.  About  were  other 
instruments,  evidently  used  for  more  inno- 
cent ends. 

Wllhelm  sat  down  and  bowed  his  bead 
upon  his  hands  In  agony.  Cold  beads  of 
perspiration  came  out  upon  his  forehead. 
He  prayed  for  strength,  and  arose,  out- 
wardly calin.  His  brain  began  to  work  more 
clearly.  In  one  flash  he  saw  what  he  had 
done;  that  in  assisting  a  criminal  to  escape 


'm^. 


IPWfP 


mmmm* 


«^ 


^imt^mmm 


A   STAB   IN  A   PRISON. 


31 


he  had  become  an  accesBory  after  the  fact. 
Yet  nature  called  out  for  the  safety  of  his 
loved  ones.  He  felt  that  he  could  not  Inform 
upon  them.  "  I  have  broken  the  laws  of  my 
country  In  tvhat  I  have  done,"  he  thought, 
"but  I  did  it  innocently  at  the  time.  The 
question  is.  what  is  my  duty  now?"  In 
spite  of  himself  he  felt  a  sudden,  wild  glad- 
ness that  even  then  old  Hermann  waa  speed- 
ing fast,  perhaps,  beyond  the  reach  of  jus- 
tice. He  could  never  do  this  again,  Wilhelm 
thought.  Perhaps  It  would  be  the  turning- 
point  in  his  lifp.  Perhaps,  through  Ger- 
trude's Influence,  he  would  at  last  become  a 
changed  kuan.  As  for  himself,  he  was 
amenable  to  punishment.  Truly,  his  part  in 
the  culprit's  escape  might  never  be  found 
out,  yet  it  would  be  a  terrible  secret  to  carry 
about  with  him.  He  felt  that  he  could  not 
be  conscience-clear  unless  he  delivered  him- 
self up.  With  the  sudden  resolution  which 
marked  a\\  his  actions  when  but  one  course 
of  right  seemed  ahead  of  him,  he  deter- 
mined to  do  this.  But  he  could  not  do  so 
until  the  poor,  old,  sinning  man  had  had 
time  to  escape.  In  many  ways  Hermann 
was  shrewd  and  orafiy.  He  would  probably 
find  some  place  of  safety. 

These  conclusions  followed  each  other 
through  Wilhelm's  mind  with  amazing 
rapidity.  Having  laid  out  his  own  course  of 
action,  he  turned,  to  go  out  of  the  door,  when 
It  suddenly  opened.  A  tall  policeman,  and  a 
small,  dark  man,  who  afterwards  proved  to 
be  the  detective,  Mr.  Sanders,  appeared. 

"You  are  my  prisoner!"  said  the  police- 
man, quietly  laying  a  hand  on  his  arm. 

Wilhelm  turned  pale  as  death.  There  was 
no  need  for  him  to  think  twice  to  under- 
stand what  his  discovery  In  this  place  must 
mean.  Th^  detective  observed  his  changing 
color,  and  quickly  noted  it  as  an  evidence  of 
guilt. 

The  young  man  made  not  the  slightest 
effort  of  remonstrance  as  his  captors  led 
him  away.  He  went  silently,  almost  hope- 
lessly; yet  determined,  when  the  right  time 


came,  to  fight  dearly  for  his  liberty.  Neither 
would  he  answer  any  question  in  reference 
to  the  old  man  whom  the  French  boy  had 
seen.  Thoroughly  exasperated,  the  detec- 
tive left  him,  and  began  to  prosecute  his 
inquiries  in  another  quarter.  In  a  day  or 
two  he  had  succeeded  in  learning  the  history 
of  the  Steinhoff  family,  and  had  found  out 
about  the  disappearance  of  Hermann  Stein- 
hoff and  his  granddaughter. 

A  keen  search  was  Immediately  set  afoot, 
and  a  description  of  the  fugitives  was  sent 
to  every  available  point.  At  last  It  was 
learned  that  an  old  man  and  a  falr-hnlred 
girl  had  taken  passage  at  Montreal,  and  had 
set  sail  for  Europe.  A  message  was  sent 
ahead  to  Llv'^rpool.  but,  as  It  happened,  the 
vessel  was  disabled  In  a  storm,  and  obliged 
to  put  into  port  in  the  south  of  England. 
There  the  supposed  fugitives  landed  and 
were  speedily  lost  sight  of.  The  search  was, 
accordingly,  dropped  for  the  time  at  the 
capital,  and  Hermann  Stelnhoflf  never  knew 
of  the  coincidence  which  had,  perhaps, 
saved  him  from  a  dcalh-bed  In  a  prison  cell. 

In  the  meantime,  Wilhelm  had  been  placed 
in  the  city  jail  to  await  his  trial.  For  a  few 
days  a  sort  of  apathy  seized  hold  of  him. 
He  scarcely  realized,  and  cared  still  less, 
where  he  was  or  what  became  of  him. 
Then  the  fit  of  illness  which  had  been  creep- 
ing upon  him,  hastened  by  the  shock,  ren- 
dered him  powerless  In  mind  and  body.  For 
weeks  he  lay  upon  his  bed,  sleeping,  for  the 
most  part,  heavily.  However,  he  was  well 
cared  for,  and  at  last  began  to  Improve 
slowly  but  surely. 


CHAPTEE  VIII. 

HOW  DOROTHY  CAMERON   FIRST  POUND 
ADOLPHE. 

KEITH  CAMERON  had  a  very  lovable 
and    very    loving    little    sister.     Her 
name  was  Dorothy,  and,  in  all  that 
concerned  doing  for  others,  or  helping  them 


?mtf' 


BIMlBiTtd 


32 


A   STAR   IN  A   PRISON. 


In  any  wny,  she  was  an  earnest  as  he.  Very 
often  she  arcompanlert  him  on  his  rounds, 
and  occasionally  rthe  made  little  trips  of  dis- 
covery on  her  own  account.  In  fact  It  was 
she  who  had  first  brought  to  his  notice 
Adolphe  Belleau  and  hi.s  sick  sister.  Keith 
remembered  the  occasion  very  well. 

lie  had  arisen  <iuiro  late  one  morning  In 
the  early  summer.  The  whole  earth  seemed 
clothed  with  beauty.  The  grass  was  green, 
and  the  mountains  were  deepening  In  the 
glad,  fresh  tints  of  springing  verdure.  As 
the  bright  sunlight  shot  In  past  the  crinkled 
leaves  of  the  chestnut  trees,  and  fell  In  bars 
of  crimson  and  gold  through  the  stained 
window  upon  the  physician's  face,  he  awoke 
with  a  start,  feeling  that  he  had  over- 
slept himself.  Hastily  he  dressed  and  de- 
scended the  broad,  softly-carpeted  stairway. 
The  rest  had  breakfasted  long  before,  but 
the  table,  with  Its  cut-glass  and  sliver  and 
snowy  napery,  stood  awaiting  him.  Very 
dainty  Indeed  It  looked,  with  Its  loosely- 
arranged  bouquet  of  pink  carnations  and 
maiden-hair  fern  in  the  center  of  the  table. 

A  stately  woman.  In  a  trailing,  gray-blue 
morning  gown,  stood  near,  glancing  through 
the  columns  of  the  "  Evening  Journal."  Her 
face  was  handsome,  but  I'ather  cold  In  out- 
line. She  looked  up  with  a  smile  as  Keith 
entered. 

"  Good-morning,  mother,"  he  said. 

"  Good-morning,  Keith.  You  were  out  very 
late  last  night,  were  you  not?" 

He  sat  down  and  arranged  his  napkin. 

"  Quite  late.  I  was  among  my  poor,"  he 
replied,  simply. 

Lady  Cameron  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  Why  you  will  persist  in  prowling  about 
among  those  people  is  more  than  I  can 
fathom,"  she  said.  "  The  worst  of  It  Is,  you 
are  making  Dorothy  as  foolish  as  yourself 
about  it." 

"Where  Is  Dorothy?"  he  asked. 

"  Bless  me,  I  don't  know.  I  can't  pretend 
to  keep  track  of  the  child.  She  went  out  for 
a  walk,  half  an  houv  ago,  I  think." 


I>ady  Cameron  went  on  with  her  paper, 
and  Keith  ate  his  breakfast  In  silence.  Then 
he  went  to  the  Tarllament  Buildings  to 
look  up  a  reference  In  the  great  library.  He 
often  went  there  to  read.  The  lofty  cham- 
ber, with  Its  beautiful  wood-carving.  Its  gal- 
lerleo.  Its  book-lined  walls.  Its  secluded 
nooks,  all  Illumined  by  the  soft  and  diffused 
light  falling  softly  from  the  great  dome 
above  the  marble  statue  of  the  Queen,  had 
ever  a  charm  for  him.  There  was  Inspira- 
tion In  Its  atmosphere;  there  v/as  rest  In  Its 
seclusion. 

When  he  had  found  the  Information  he  de- 
sired he  took  his  way  out  again,  through  the 
long,  silent  corridors,  which,  lined  with  the 
painted  faces  of  the  speakers  of  the  past, 
seemed  jontlnually  to  unfold  page  after 
page  of  the  country's  history.  He  stepped 
out  into  the  fresh  air,  through  the  main  en- 
trance, and  stood  for  a  moment  proudly  re- 
garding the  scene  before  him.  It  was  a 
scene  worthy  of  any  true  Canadian's  pride, 
worthy  of  the  country's  capital.  Below  him. 
green  as  emerald  In  the  morning  sun, 
stretched  the  spacious  lawns,  with  their  ter- 
races, drives  and  clumps  of  gay  flowers.  At 
either  side  the  stately  eastern  and  western 
blocks  of  the  buildings  proudly  reared  their 
heads  in  massive,  yet  graceful,  beauty. 
Beyond  could  be  seen  the  trees  of  Welling- 
ton Street,  and  glimpses  of  the  fine  stone 
edifices  which  extended  far  on  either  side, 
forming  a  fitting  frontage  for  Canada's 
most  noble  pile  of  architecture. 

A  light  wind  was  blowing  from  the  west. 
It  was  very  fresh  and  cool.  Kelih  would 
take  a  turn  In  the  bracing  air  before  going 
back  to  his  office.  Turning  to  the  right,  he 
passed  around  the  corner  of  the  main  build- 
ing, and  v;ent  on  to  the  brow  of  the  precipice 
beyond.  It  was  a  scene  of  which  no  inhabi- 
tant of  the  capital  could  ever  weary.  About 
stretched  the  spacious  grounds  at  the  rear, 
with  their  curving  walks  and  perfectly 
trimmed  hedges.  Immediately  below,  the 
sheer  walls  of  the  cliff  fell  away  to  the  river, 


A  STAR   IN  A   PRISON. 


33 


r  paper, 
ce.  Theu 
lings  to 
ary.  He 
y  chnm- 
,  Its  g.al- 
secluded 

diffused 
it  dome 
een,  had 

Insplrn- 
;st  in  its 

m  he  de- 
ough  the 
with  the 
he  past, 
?e    after 

stepped 
main  en- 
judly  re- 
c  was  a 
I's  pride, 
low  him. 
ng  sun, 
their  ter- 
^^ers.    At 

western 
red  their 

beauty. 
Welling- 
ne  stone 
her  side, 
Canada's 

he  west, 
h  would 
)re  going 
right,  he 
in  build- 
precipice 
o  Inhabl- 
About 
the  rear, 
perfectly 
low,  the 
;he  river, 


its  rugged  side  broken  only  by  the  blossom- 
ing shrubbery,  and  by  the  Lover's  Walk, 
shining  here  and  there  like  a  thread  of 
white  through  the  trees,  about  half  way 
down  the  steep  escarpment.  At  the  base  of 
the  cliff  ran  the  broad  river,  its  swift  cur- 
rent curling  into  foaming  waves  and  eddies, 
and  sparkling  brightly  in  the  sun.  Beyond, 
the  roofs  of  Hull  stood  clear  and  distinct, 
in  thin,  smokeless  air.  Far  up  the  river  a 
railway  train  puffed  its  way  along;  and 
below,  the  Falls  of  the  Chaudi^re,  the  "  Big 
Kettle,"  boiled  in  mad  confusion.  Keith 
could  plainly  see  its  wild  waters,  white  with 
foam,  and  its  heavy  roar  fell  distinctly  upon 
bis  ear.  He  turned  from  it  to  look  for  a 
moment  upon  the  mountains  of  Quebec,  just 
across,  with  King's  Mountain  rising,  as  the 
father  of  the  chain,  black  against  the  sky. 
His  eye  followed  them  as  they  became 
smaller  and  smaller,  purple  and  more  pur- 
ple, in  the  long  distance,  following  the  wind- 
ing, glistening  river  below.  Then  he  ran 
down  the  steps  to  the  cooler  shades  of  the 
Lover's  Walk. 

For  a  moment  he  stood  leaning  upon  the 
railing  at  the  edge  of  the  lower  precipice. 
Above  him  a  flood  of  green-gold  light  broke 
through  the  tender  foliage.  The  trees 
farther  down  were  just  tipped  with  bright- 
ness.   "What  a  glorious  worldl"  he  thought. 

Then  his  eye  fell  upon  something— a  very 
strange  and  interesting  something,  yet  piti- 
ful withal.  It  was  a  little  cabin,  built 
in  the  fashion  of  a  house  -  boat,  upon  a 
rough  raft,  and  anchored  to  a  sort  of 
reedy  Island.  This  island  was  one  that 
had  been  very  unstably  formed  by  the  saw- 
dust, which,  in  coming  down  from  the  great 
mills,  had  lodged,  along  with  other  sedi- 
ment, until  a  low,  spongy  bank  had  appeared 
above  the  water.  Some  straggling  bushes 
grew  upon  it  and  a  few  reeds,  but  water  lay 
all  about  the  stems.  There  was  not  a  foot  of 
solid  ground  upon  which  a  human  being 
could  stand.  On  either  side  of  the  little 
island  the  current  ran  very  swiftly.     The 


small  house,  therefore,  could  boast  of  no 
j-ard.  save  the  logs  of  the  raft.  It  wns, 
pr()l>al)ly,  the  home  of  some  poor  creature, 
who  sought,  in  tliis  way,  to  avoid  the  pay- 
ment of  rent.  Fuel,  too,  would  be  supplied 
by  the  odd  bits  of  driftwood  tioating  down 
from  the  mills. 

At  one  end  of  the  cabin  a  rude,  flat-bot- 
tomed punt  was  tied  up,  and  presently  a 
young  girl  and  a  boy,  who  looked,  at  this 
distance,  almost  a  child,  came  out  and  got 
into  it.  The  girl  sat  at  the  end,  where  there 
Avas,  evidently,  no  rudder,  and  the  boy  tooa: 
hold  of  tlie  clumsy  oars.  Keith  watched  it 
rather  anxiously  as  it  moved  out  Into  tlie 
swift  current  and  was  rapidly  carried  on, 
sometimes  being  almost  completely  whirled 
around  In  an  eddy. 

Te  boy  looked  scarcely  large  enough  or 
strong  enough  to  manage  the  punt,  yet  he 
seemed  to  be  making  an  effort  to  bring  It 
across  the  current  to  the  shore.  In  this  he 
was  making  but  slow  progress.  Slowly, 
slowly  It  came,  now  gilding  with  some  ease 
across  a  comparatively  smooth  spot,  now 
whirling  half  way  about,  or  darting,  swift 
as  an  arrow,  down  the  stream  and  out  of  Its 
course. 

Keith  watched  with  growing  uneasiness. 
Suddenly  his  heart  gave  a  wild  bound. 
There  was  something  familiar  about  that 
girlish  figure  sitting  in  the  end  of  the  boat. 
He  looked  again.  Yes,  it  was  Dorothy! 
Dorothy,  with  her  pink  dress  and  brown 
cape,  and  her  brown  hair  flying  in  the  wind. 
Keith  paused  no  longer.  He  did  not  stop  to 
consider  that  he  could  get  no  boat  nearer 
than  the  end  of  the  canal,  and  that,  to  reach 
It,  he  must  traverse  almost  the  entire  length 
of  the  Lover's  Walk.  He  was  off  like  the 
wind.  He  had  not  piactised  cricket  and 
base-ball  fifteen  years  for  nothing. 

At  a  sudden  curve  of  the  walk  he  ran  Into 
a  portly  old  member  of  Parliament,  who  was 
quietly  taking  a  morning  constitutional.  The 
old  gentleman's  tall  silk  hrt  flew  off  one 
way,  his  spectacles  another,  but  Keith  did 


34 


A   STAR    IN  A   PRISON. 


»''l 


not  stop.  The  nstonislipd  njonibcr  Htnod 
gazliiK  after  hliu  In  Htupeflod  wonder.  Far- 
ther down,  he  dashed  between  two  utiulents 
who  were  saunterlnR  ah)n>:.  reading  In  the 
Khade.  They  Immediately  ran  after  him  to 
see  what  was  wrong,  and  a  gendarme,  who 
appeared  on  the  seene,  folh>wed  suit.  Bnt 
Keith  outran  them  all.  By  this  time  he  had 
run  down  the  stairs,  secured  a  boat  and 
was  madly  pulling  out.  Ills  astonished 
pursuers  did  not  know  what  to  think  of  his 
actions.  Yet  there  seemed  to  be  method  In 
his  madness. 

£  few  sturdy  strokes  drew  him  In  sight  of 
the  old  punt,  and,  to  his  Intense  relief,  he 
saw  that  It  was  out  of  danger,  gliding  easily 
along  In  the  calm  water  close  to  the  shore. 
Dorothy  recognized  him  and  waved  her 
hands,  smiling,  without  the  least  sign  of 
nervousness  In  the  world.  A  moment  later 
Ivelth  was  assisting  her  from  the  boat  and 
puttmg  a  coin  Into  the  hand  of  the  little 
boatman  who  had  rowed  her  safely  over. 

"Dorothy,  what  does  this  mean?"  he 
asked,  as  he  led  her  away. 

"Now,  don't  scold,  Keith!"  she  said,  with 
a  pretty  pout.  "  You  can't  tind  fault  with 
-rour  own  pupil,  surely!"  and  she  caught  his 
arm  lovingly.  Her  face  was  full  of  enthusi- 
asm. "  Oh,  Keith,"  she  continued,  "  tliere's 
such  a  nice  girl  over  there,  but  she's  so  sick, 
and  they  are  very  poor,  and—" 

'Easy!  Eary!"  Interrupted  Keith.  "Give 
a  man  time  to  digest  all  this,  \von't  you? 
Now  tell  me  how  you  came  to  venture  over 
there." 

"Why,  I  heard  the  boy  asking  for  some 
medicine  In  a  drug  store,  and  offering  to  run 
errands  for  it.  But  the  man  wouldn't  give 
him  either  the  work  or  the  medicine.  The 
little  boy  looked  so  sad,  I  asked  him  vehat 
was  the  matter,  and  he  told  me  about  his 
sick  sister.  I  got  the  medicine  out  of  my 
own  money,  and  then  —  I  did  so  want  to  see 
the  girl!  It  wasn't  very  wrong  for  me  to 
go,  was  It?"  and  the  thoughtful  gray  eyes 
looked  up  pleadingly. 


Keith  looked  down  w«th  the  glimmer  of  a 
sndle  in  his  own.  '  Terhaps  not  wrong,  but 
very  foolish  and  venturesome,  Dorothy." 

"  But  I  dhln't  know  where  we  were 
going,  Keith.  I  Just  followed  the  boy, 
Adolphc." 

Keith  stopped  and  looked  at  her  a  mo- 
ment. 

"  Dorothy,  you  would  venture  In—" 

"  '  Where  angels  fear  to  tread.'  "  laughed 
Dorothy.  "  Now,  Keith,  don't  flnish  the  quo- 
tation, please." 

He  smiled.  "  I  will  talk  to  you  further 
about  this  when  we  go  home,"  he  said.  He 
then  led  her  to  tell  about  the  little  household 
on  the  raft— of  how  it  consisted  of  a  pretty 
French  girl,  seventeen  years  of  age,  and  her 
brother;  of  how  the  girl  had  had  work  In  a 
factory,  but  had  become  so  weak  that  she 
could  not  do  It  quickly  and  was  dischai'ged. 
and  of  how  since  then  they  had  scarcely  had 
enough  to  eat.  The  girl,  Agnes.  Indeed 
wanted  but  little,  for  she  was  very  111.  But 
Adolphe  almost  starved  In  order  that  he 
might  get  things  for  her.  Then  the  house 
was  so  damp,  being  upon  the  water,  that 
Agnes'  pain  was  aggravated  —  and  Keith 
would  see  to  her  from  this  time  forth, 
wouldn't  he? 

.Tust  here  it  may  be  said  that  Keith  did 
not  disappoint  his  sister  In  her  expecta- 
+ion8.  From  that  day  the  world  became 
>rlghter  for  Adolphe  and  Agnes  Belleau. 
As  Agnes  refused  to  go  to  the  hospital,  she 
and  her  brother  were  removed  to  rooms  in 
the  cottage  at  which  we  first  saw  them,  and 
the  damp  house  on  the  river,  with  Its 
marshy  odors  and  chill  mists,  was  quietly 
allowed  to  go  to  ruin.  More  than  that, 
henceforth  Adolphe  hau  little  iack  of  work, 
for,  when  other  sources  failed,  the  good 
doctor  usually  had  some  message  to  be  riln, 
or  some  job  to  be  accomplished. 

Well,  then,  to  resume.  When  Keith  and 
Dorothy  reached  home  that  morning,  he 
drew  her  Into  the  library  and  closed  the 
door.    Then  he  took  her  In  his  arms. 


1,1  f^i: 


A   STAR   IN  A   PRISON, 


35 


"  Dorothy,"  he  snld,  "  novor  let  me  hear 
of  your  doing  this  thing  again." 

"Keith!" 

"  Don't  yon  know  how  trpnoherous  the  river 
1b?  Not  only  oh  account  of  tho 
current,  but  there  are  bods  of 
sawduHt  in  the  more  Hlugglsh 
portlouB  which  explode  Bome- 
times.  I  myself  once  saw  a  boat 
overturned  by  just  such  an  ex- 
plosion." 

"I  know.  Keith,"  she  sntd, 
pinching  his  cheek,  "  but  I 
didn't  like  to  turn  back  when 
we  got  to  the  river.  Anyway,  I 
wasn't  a  bit  afraid." 

His  face  was  very  grave. 

"See,  little  sister,"  he  re- 
turned, "you  must  never  go 
about  alone  in  this  way  again. 
I  say  'must,'  and  in  this- thing 
I  hope  you  will  be  willing  to 
respect  my  wishes." 

"  Not  even  to  help  poor,  sick 
people?  They  are  so  lonely 
sometimes.  Are  you  angry  with 
me,  Keith?" 

Keith  drew  the  sweet  face  up 
to  him  and  kissed  it. 

"  No,  Dorothy,"  he  said.  In  the 
low,  gentle  tone  that  always 
went  straight  to  Dorothy's 
heart.  "  Your  heart  Is  right  in 
this  matter.  How  old  are  you, 
dear?" 

"  Fifteen,  on  Monday.  Why 
do  you  ask  such  queer  ques- 
tions, brother.?" 

"  My    little    sister,    will    you 
promise  me  never  to  go  off  on 
a    wild    goose  -  chase    like    this 
again,    without    some    older    person    with 
you,  no  matter  how  much  you  may  want  to 
go?" 

"Yes,  Keith." 

He  kissed  her  again.    "  ThAnk  you." 

"  If  only  Octavia   Edgar   would  go   with 


me  sonjptlmesl"  mused  the  girl.  Octavia 
Edgar  was  a  very  aristocratic  young  lady 
and  a  beauty.  She  was  an  Intimate  friend 
of   the   Cameron    family,    and    had,    conse- 


Keith's  voice  joined  liers.— See  page  36. 

quently.  been  marked  out  by  the  social 
world  as  the  future  bride  of  Dr.  Keith. 

"  Have  you  tried  ner?"  he  asked,  with  a 
smile. 

"  Yes.  She  says  it  makes  her  morbid  to 
see  people  in  want  and  suffering.    So  she 


36 


A   STAB   IN  A   PRISON. 


gives  money  to  the  Sisters  of  the  Church 
instead." 

Keith  almost  frowned. 

"Keith!" 

"  Yes." 

"  Why  do  the  Sisters  of  the  Church  wear 
such  horrid,  loose  cloaks,  and  long  black 
veils  that  look  so  hot  and  uncomfortable?" 
She  referred  to  a  society  of  woii^en  bound 
together  for  purposes  of  charity  and  mercy. 

"Why  do  you  ask?"  he  inquired. 

"  Because  I  think  there's  something  of  the 
Pharisee  about  it.  It  looks  as  though  they 
w^re  saying,  '  Look  at  me.  I  am  not  as 
other  women  are.    I  am  religious.'  " 

Keith  smiled.  "No,  it  is  not  that,"  he 
replied.  "  These  consecrated  women  have 
to  go  into  many  rough  and  wicked  places. 
But  even  the  lowest  people'  have  a  sort  of 
respect  for  those  whom  they  look  upon  as 
truly  'religious.'  The  clothes  these  women 
wear  show  who  they  are,  and  thus  act  as  a 
protection.  Besides,  these  dull,  black  dresses 
are  very  serviceable  and  very  economical, 
and  you  know  the  good  Sisters  have  little 
money  to  spend  upon  themselves." 

Dorothy  looked  enlightened.  "  Oh,  I  sp«»i" 
she  said.  "  Do  you  know,  Keith,  when  I  am 
quite  grown  up.  I  think  I  shall  be  a  Sister." 

A  light  like  a  gleam  of  sunshine  broke 
over  Keith's  face.  He  drew  his  sister  still 
closer  to  him,  and  hid  his  face  in  her  hair 
for  a  moment,  then  he  went  abruptly  out. 
When  he  returned,  an  hour  later,  Dorothy 
was  at  the  piano,  singing  softly: 

"  Oh,  to  be  tiothinp,  nothing! 
Only  to  lie  at  His  feet 
A  broken  and  emptied  vessel, 
For  the  Master's  use  made  meet." 

Keith  went  quickly  over,  in  his  Impetuous 
way,  and  pla'-^d  his  hand  over  the  leaf. 
Dorothy  looked  at  him  in  astonishment. 

"As  the  writer  of  this  meant  it,"  he  said, 
"It  is  probably  all  right.  As  it  is  often  in- 
terpreted, it  is  all  wrong.  The  Master 
wants  '::8  to  be  everything  for  him,  because 


he  is  everything  for  us.  He  wants  us  to  be 
the  very  best  of  which  we  are  capable. 
He  does  not  always  want  broken  vessels, 
but  strong,  useful  vessels,  filled  with  love. 
He  does  not  want  them  emptied,  except  of 
selfishness  and  sin." 

He  paused  and  opened  the  book  anew. 
"  Sing  this,"  he  said.    And  Dorothy  sang: 

"  A  charge  to  keep  I  have, 

A  God  to  glorify, 
A  never-dying  soul  to  save, 

And  fit  it  for  the  sky. 
To  serve  the  present  age, 

My  calling  to  fulfill, 
Oh,  may  it  all  my  powers  engage 

To  do  my  Master's  will."  ' 

Dorothy  looked  perplexed.  "  Keith,  that 
does  not  mean  that  people  have  to  do  all  in 
regard  to  their  salvation,  does  it?"  she 
asked. 

"  By  no  means,"  he  replied,  "  but  they 
have  to  do  the  choosing,  the  turning  to  God, 
who  will  separate  them  from  sin.  Now, 
then,  I  have  but  five  minutes  at  my  dis- 
posal.   Sing  this." 

Her  voice  rang  out  again  clearly: 

"  Tell  me  not  of  heavy  crosses. 

Nor  of  burdens  hard  to  bear, 
For  I've  found  this  great  salvation 

Makes  each  burden  light  appear. 
And  I  love  to  follow  Jesus, 

Gladly  counting  all  but  dross, 
Worldly  honors  all  forsaking 

For  the  glory  of  the  cross." 

Once  more  he  turned  the  pages  and 
stopped  at  a  favorite.  She  sang,  and  this 
time  Keith's  voice  Joined  hers: 

"  For  the  love  of  God  is  greater 

Than  the  measure  of  man's  mind, 
And  the  heart  of  the  Eternal 
Is  most  wonderfully   kind. 

"  If  our  love  were  but  more  simple. 
We  should  take  him  at  his  word, 
And  our  lives  would  be  all  sunshine 
In  the  sweetness  of  our  Lord." 

"Now,  Dorothy  dear,"  Keith  said,  as  she 
concluded,  "suppose  you  study  over  these 


A   STAR   IN  A   PRISON. 


37 


verses  that  you  have  been  singing.  There 
is  a  connection  in  the  thought.  Find  it  out 
if  you  can." 

He  went  out,  and  Dorothy  sat  for  a  long 
time  thinliiug.  with  her  chin  in  her  hand. 
At  last  she  said  to  herself,  "  It's  something 
about  action,  and  burdens,  and  love.  Love 
is  tie  last,  so  I  suppose  it  is  the  greatest 
thought.  Why,  of  course!  I  see  now!  I 
love  Keith.  I  would  do  jusc  anything  for 
him,  and  it  would  be  no  burden  at  all,  but 
a  pleasure.  That  must  be  the  way  people 
ought  to  feel  towards  God.  Besides,  I 
think  I  love  all  the  people  Keith  cares  for. 
I  can't  help  it.  Then,  shouldn't  a  true 
Christian  care  for  everybody,  because  God 
cares  for  everybody?" 

Was  Dorothy  right?  ' 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  TRIAL  OP  WILHELM 
STEINHOPF. 

HE  months  dragged  on 
slowly,  in  which  Wil- 
helm  gradually  re- 
gained his  health, 
and  liept,  for  the  most 
part,  a  suffering  si- 
leuce.  Then  came  the 
time  for  his  trial. 
There  was  considerable  excitement  in  court- 
room circles  over  the  case,  but,  in  spite  of 
Wilhelm's  youth,  and  the  spotless  reputa- 
tion which  he  had  hitherto  borne,  there  was 
but  little  sympathy  for  the  handsome 
young  prisoner.  He  was  loolced  upon  as  a 
hypocrite  and  an  impostor  of  the  Vrorst 
kind,  and  even  his  former  friends  began  to 
forget  the  hearty  candor  and  irank  manli- 
ness which  had  ever  madr^  aim  a  favorite 
among  them.  They  were  "  really  sorry 
he  had  turned  out  so.  Who  would  have  be- 
lieved it  of  Steinhoff?" 
On  the   morning  of   the   trial   the  court 


room  was  crowded.  Wilhelm  appeared  at 
the  bar,  pale  from  illness  and  worn  by  men- 
tal suffering.  Conscious  of  his  innocence, 
he  looked  calmly  and  bravely  over  the  sea 
of  upturned  faces,  vaguely  hoping  to  see  one 
friendly  countenance,  one  glance  of  sym- 
pathy, one  heart-to-heart  gaze  which  might 
tell  him  that  even  one  believed  in  his  honor. 
He  searched  in  vain.  People  regarded  him 
curiously,  contemptuously,  scornfully;  nay, 
perhaps,  one  or  two  pityingly;  but  it  was  the 
pity  with  which  one  might  look  upon  a 
Judas,  grieving,  not  for  the  punishment  of 
his  sin,  but  for  the  sin  itself.  Wilhelm  read 
all  this  in  the  countenances  of  the  people 
below.  He  did  not  notice  one  little,  round 
face,  hall*  hidden  by  a  pillar,  gazing  at  him 
with  sympathy  and  remorse.  Adolphe  had 
crept  in,  and  was  saying  to  himself,  "  I  wish 
I  had  kep'  my  nose  out  of  dat  o!e  place, 
for  de  bad  wan  has  skipped,  an'  dat  Wilhelm 
is  not  de  wan  at  all."  With,  perhaps,  the 
innocent  instinct  of  childhood,  the  French 
boy  read,  in  this  young  man's  countenance, 
the  truth  which  others  were  failing  to  find 
there. 

Wilhelm's  spirit  rose  in  arms  against  the 
antagonistic  temper  which  he  felt  round 
about  him.  He  blamed  the  cold  crowd  for 
their  want  of  penetration;  he  accused  his 
friends  of  inconstancy.  A  spirit  of  defiance 
seized  upon  him.  He  folded  his  arms  and 
looked  down  with  stern  face  and  com- 
pressed lips.  The  expression  of  his  coun- 
tenance was,  of  course,  noted  by  the  report- 
ers, who  remarked  in  the  evening  paper 
upon  "  the  hardened  face  of  the  prisoner  at 
the  bar." 

The  calling  of  witnesses  began,  and  an 
amazing  array  of  them  was  produced.  Little 
incidents,  which  were  true  yet  harmless  aa 
the  play  of  a  child,  were  brought  in,  aD<? 
pointed,  with  a  poisoned  meaning,  to  '9(*' 
cate  the  guilt  of  the  acous<>d.  Even  the  f».rt 
of  his  proficiency  in  all  branohe«<  of  scieure. 
and  his  practice  of  carrying  on  experim#»a*.B 
with  old  Hermann,  were  brought  in  to  serve 


If 


■ti{rr!.M 


38 


A   STAR    IN  A   PBISON. 


as  a  condemning  evidence,  wliile  one  wit- 
ness deposed  tliat  be  had  once,  quite  late  in 
the  night,  met  Hermann  and  Wilhelm 
Steinhoff  coming  from  the  dii'ection  of  the 
house  in  Lower  Town.  Wilhelm  remem- 
bered the  occasion  well.  It  was  the  night 
upon  which  he  had  followed  Hermann. 

Adolphe  gave  his  testimony  impetuously, 
almost  excitedly,  yet  every  effort  made  to 
confuse  him  in  his  statements  was  unsuc- 
cessful. At  the  close  of  it,  he  electrified  his 
audience  by  turning  fiercely  upon  the  judge. 
"I  tell  you!"  he  exclaimed  in  the  exceed- 
ingly broken  English  which  he  used  when 
greatly  moved,  "  you  sentence  heem  over 
dere  for  prison,  you  was  do  great  sin!  Heem 
no  wan  w'at  do  mischief!  Heem  innocent, 
so  innocent  as  you!" 

He  was,  however,  quickly  called  to  order, 
and  sat  down,  with  flushed  cheeks  and 
flashing  eyes.  One  grateful  look  he  caught 
from  Wilhelm.  and  the  little  brown  face 
went  down,  to  hide  the  tears  that  would  not 
be  checked.  , 

Wilhelm  was  at  last  called  upon  to 
answer  for  himsalf,  and  a  great  hush 
settled  upon  the  chamber.  He  began,  in  a 
low  voice,  his  plea  of  "  not  guilty."  For  the 
first  time  he  told  his  story,  and  told  it  with 
a  consistency  which  the  severest  cross- 
examination  failed  to  shake.  "  Your  wor- 
ship, and  gentlemen  of  the  jury,"  he  said  in 
conclusion,  and  in  a  voice  whose  tender 
pathos  thrilled  even  the  unsympathetic,  "  I 
have  willingly,  though  not  deliberately,  if 
It  please  you,  assisted  in  the  escape  of  one 
whom  I  can  scarcely  choose  but  believe 
guilty  of  the  fearful  crime  which  you  have 
attributed  to  me,  as  his  confr&re.  To  this  I 
plead  guilty,  but  to  naught  else.  For  this, 
which  was,  after  all,  {»entlemen,  but  the  im- 
pulsive following  of  the  dictates  of  natural 
affection,  I  am  willing  to  suffer  the  penalty. 
But  in  the  other  matter,  my  hands,  thank 
heaven,  are  as  innocent  as  those  of  a  little 
child!  You  may  condemn  me.  You  cannot 
take  away  my  innocence!  You  cannot  bestow 


upon  me  a  guilty  conscience!  Gentlemen,  I 
plead  only  for  justice,  the  justice  which  our 
free  and  glorious  land  concedes  to  the  weak- 
est of  her  citizens!" 

He  sat  down  and  a  tremor  of  reaction  suc- 
ceeded the  Intense  silence  which  had  pre- 
vailed while  he  was  speaking.  But  even 
those  who  had  been  touched  by  the  simple 
directness  of  his  speech,  felt  through- 
out that  there  was  no  hope.  The  evidence 
against  him  was  too  strong.  His  explana- 
tion of  his  presence  in  the  old  stone  house 
had  not  been  deemed  satisfactory,  and  that, 
of  itself,  was  held  suflicient  to  condemn  him. 
Besides,  the  lawyer  upon  the  side  of  the 
prosecution  was  a  man  gifted  with  unusual 
eloquence,  and  the  force  of  his  words  was 
pointed,  in  this  case,  by  the  flrrr>neF  -^f  the 
conviction  whi(?h  he  held  in  rf:aai>  t^.  the 
guilt  of  the  prisoner. 

The  jury  adjourned,  and  when  they 
brought  in  the  verdict  of  "guilty,"  a  mur- 
mur, chiefly  of  approval,  went  throughout 
the  breathless  audience.  Wilhelm' s  face 
blanched.  He  cast  one  appealing,  Imploring 
look  upon  the  judge,  then  he  folded  his  arms 
and  bowed  his  head  in  bitter  hopelessness, 
scarcely  hearing  the  sentence  to  a  long 
term  of  hard  labor  in  the  penitentiary, 
which  was  being  pronounced  upon  him. 

As  the  last  words  fell  from  the  judge' 
lips,  a  shrill,  boyish  A'oice  rang  through  th 
court  room.    "  You  wan  weecked  ole  manl 
You    all    weecked!     Heem    never    do    it! 
Heem—" 

The  French  boy  was  standing  with  flushed 
face,  wildly  gesticulating,  as  his  bright  black 
eyes  glared  upon  the  judge  and  the  jury. 
But  his  passionate  appeal  was  never  fin- 
ished. He  was  immediately  silenced  and 
dragged  out  of  the  chamber.  As  he  was  hur- 
ried through  the  door,  he  caught  a  glimpsa  of 
a  fine,  pale  face,  whose  unutterable  sorrow 
and  unspoken  indignation  found  a  chord  In 
the  boy's  own  soul.  Yes,  Dr.  Keith  Cameron 
felt  in  his  soul  that  Wilhelm  Steinhoff's 
statement  of  innocence  might  be  true.    Yet 


^W 


A   STAB    IN  A   PRISON. 


39 


what  could  he  do?  Absolutely  nothing.  He 
had  not  the  slightest  means  of  proving  one 
opinion  whicli  he  held. 

Wilhelm  suffered  himself  to  be  led  out, 
scarcely  realizing  where  he  was  going. 
When  once  again  in  his  cell  in  the  city  jail, 
he  threw  himself  on  his  cot  In  an  agony  of 
despair.  Even  y«t  he  could  not  see  all  that 
was  before  him.  He  had  never  been  within 
penitentiary  walls. 

His  brow  was  burning  and  his  lips  were 
dry.  His  head  ached,  and  a  strange,  cold, 
heavy  sense  of  pain  was  at  his  heart.  He 
felt  that  he  could  scarcely  breathe  for  the 
oppressive  weight  that  lay  upon  him.  Then 
suddenly  a  light  seemed  to  flash  upon  him. 
He  turned  to  God.  Ah,  he  had  forgotten 
God  during  the  terrible  court-room  ordeal! 
He  prayed  for  strength,  for  companionship, 
and  was  comforted.  His  earnest  com- 
munion with  God  caused  him  to  feel  that 
everlasting  strength  still  was  his;  that  he 
could  never  be  utterly  alone.  He  knew  that 
by  prayer  he  did  not  change  God's  attitude 
to  him,  but  his  toward  God,  for  God  was 
ever  loving,  pitying,  sympathizing.  He  grew 
willing  to  trust,  and  such  a  peace  came  upon 
him  that  for  the  time  he  felt  that  nothing 
could  ever  greatlj^  disturb  him  more.  God 
might  not  see  best  just  now  to  deliver  him 
from  this  bondage,  yet  In  the  end  It  would 
be  well.  He  would  wait,  and  trust,  and  be 
strong.  So  he  fell  into  a  deep  sleep.  On  the 
morrow  he  was  to  be  removed  to  the  peni- 
tentiary. 


CHAPTER  X. 

WILHELM  LEAVES  THE  CAPITAIi. 

NEXT     morning     Wilhelm     awoke,     re- 
freshed in  body,  but  with  a  crushing 
sense  of  calamity  bearing  upon  hhn. 
He  pressed  his  hands  upon  his  brow,  and 
gradually  his  confused  Impressions  resolved 
themselves    into   memories.    Into    thoughts. 


He  saw  again  the  court  room  full  of  piti- 
less faces,  heard  again  the  hum  of  voices 
that  Intervened  between  the  calling  of 
witnesses,  as  men  whispered  and  laughed, 
all  regardless  of  the  young  life  that  hung  in 
the  balance  there  —  freedom,  liberty,  man- 
hood, on  one  side;  a  living  tomb  on  the  other. 
He  heard  again  the  deep,  clear  tones  of  the 
judge  ringing  out,  as  though  afar  off,  a  ter- 
rible sentence.  The  words  "  Wilhelm  Steln- 
hofr:"  smote  upon  his  ear,  and  he  started  up 
with  the  awful  consciousness  that  he  had 
been  the  prisoner  there  In  the  dock;  that  his 
was  the  doomed  life,  condemned  to  Igno- 
miny, to  that  fate  worse  than  oblivion,  the 
branded  shame  of  the  prison-house. 

He  was  now  keenly  awake.  "  I  am  Inno- 
cent! Oh,  heaven,  I  am  innocent!  It  was 
all  a  lie,  a  shameful,  despicable  lie!"  he 
cried,  and  buried  his  face  In  his  hands. 

Alas  for  poor  human  nature!  His  peace  of 
the  night  before  had  flown.  He  had  not  yet 
reached  that  blissful  height  before  which 
earthly  griefs  fall  back  abashed.  After  all, 
it  was  not  an  easy  thing  for  a  young  man, 
refined,  educated,  in  the  very  blossom  of 
life,  to  look  calmly  forward  to  the  peniten- 
tiary. Then  he  thought  of  poor,  feeble,  old 
Hermann,  who  was  even  now  breathing  the 
free  air  of  heaven,  perhaps  In  some  far-off 
clime,  and  of  Gertrude,  calmly  unconscious 
of  the  terrible  fate  which  had  overtaken  lier 
brother,  and  with  her  beautiful  confidence 
in  her  grandfather  all  unshaken.  "  For 
her  sake  I  can  bear  it!"  he  thought.  "  It 
would  have  killed  her  to  know  all!" 

So  he  pondered  until  a  voice  bade  him 
make  ready,  for  It  would  soon  be  train  time. 
Then  he  realized  that  this  was  the  very  day 
upon  which  he  was  to  bid  farewell  to  so- 
ciety, to  the  beautiful  earth,  to  liberty  —  all, 
all  that  men  usually  consider  necessary  to 
make  life  worth  living.  He  dressed  hur- 
riedly and  ate  a  little  breakfast.  Then  he 
went  with  his  conductor  to  the  depot. 

People  turned  to  look  at  him  curiously. 
He  shrank  from  their  gaze.     On  the  way 


40 


A   STAB   IN  A   PBISON. 


-^1 

-^  il 


he  met  two  young  men  whom  he  had 
known  and  turned  away  his  head.  He 
could  not  bear  to  look  into  the  faces  of 
those  who  must  now  despise  him,  and  he 
was  thankful  when  he  was  at  last  able  to 
sit  down  upon  the  hard  seat  of  a  second- 
class  coach. 

As  the  train  sped  from  the  city,  dashlug 
along  with  its  feverish  energy  through  the 
hazy  sunshine  of  the  late  autumn,  Wilhelm 
looked  wistfully  back  at  the  mountains,  at 
the  tall  spires  of  the  churches,  at  the  flashes 
of  blue  water  shining  occasionally  through 
between  trees  all  gorgeous  in  crimson  and 
gold.  His  heart  called  out  a  sad  farewell, 
and  nature  seemed  to  smile  pitifully  back. 
He  watched  the  yellow  stubble-fields  that 
went  hurrying  by,  the  farm-houses  with  lit- 
tle, free  children  loitering  on  their  doorsteps 
to  see  the  train  pass,  the  orchards  gay  with 
scarlet  apples,  and  ihe  Inncs  edged  with  pur- 
ple sumach;  and  all  the  way  the  rumble  of 
the  train  resolved  itself  into  a  plaintive  re- 
frain which  seemed  to  echo  continually  in  his 
ears  with  a  pitiful  reiteration,  "  Farewell, 
farewell,  farewell!  All  that  is  lovely,  fare- 
well! Life,  and  hope,  and  joy,  farewell! 
Friends,  and  home,  and  loved  ones,  farewell, 
farewell!"  The  words  sang  on  and  on, 
forming  theme L^lves  into  a  sort  of  low,  mon- 
otonous chant  that  annoyed  him  with  its 
persistency,  and  he  was  almost  relieved 
when  the  flash  of  broad,  blue  waters,  and  a 
glimpse  of  the  solid  stone  forts  about  old 
Cataraqui,  warned  him  that  his  journey  was 
coming  to  an  end. 

No  time  was  lost.  He  was  put  into  a  hack 
and  hurried  on  to  the  prison.  From  the  hill 
above  he  caught  a  view  of  long,  white  walls, 
with  sentries  upon  them,  and  of  a  massive, 
pillared  front.  Then  a  cold,  iron  touch 
seemed  to  fall  upon  his  heart.  He  cast  one 
longing  glance  about  him.  Waving  woods, 
decked  in  the  glorious  garb  of  autumn,  ap- 
peared above  him.  and  an  expanse  of  broad, 
grass  covered  flelds.  But,  In  the  midst  of 
these    flelds,    stood    a   great    round    tower, 


whose  windows  stared  out  like  huge,   un- 
unwinking  eyes.  In  all  directions. 

"The  quarries,"  muttered  Wilhelm's 
guide.  And  the '  young  man  looked  away 
again.  In  a  moment  he  was  at  the  pillared 
portal  and  ushered  into  the  gloomy  en- 
trance, whose  floor  has  echoed  to  the  sullen 
tread  of  so  many  of  earth's  wasted  ones. 
Blue-coated  men,  with  peaked  caps,  stood 
about  in  the  great  hall.  They  glanced  at 
him  carelessly,  and,  for  one  moment,  In  his 
seeming  degradation,  he  almost  felt  as 
though  they  were  a  higher  order  of  beings 
than  he.  Then  the  proud  consciousness 
came  upon  him,  "  Whatever  they  may  think 
of  me,  I  am  innocent.  I  am  still  myself,  and 
they  cannot  wrench  my  individuality  from 
me!"  and  he  held  up  his  head  with  manly 
fearlessness. 

"Good-looking  fellow,"  he  heard  one  of 
the  guards  say,  in  a  low  tone. 

"  Yes,"  returned  another.  In  a  half  whis- 
per, which  Wilhelm's  keen  ear  caught,  "  but 
a  bad  one,  they  say.  For  downright,  refined 
badness,  trust  one  of  the  gentleman  sort!" 

A  heavy  Iron  door  was  then  swung  open, 
and  he  was  conducted  down  a  well-kept 
garden  walk  towards  the  office,  in  a  large 
building  below.  Here  he  sat  down.  His 
every  nerve  was  on  a  tension,  and  his  brain 
was  afire  with  the  unusual  mental  activity 
that  sometimes  attends  the  most  painful 
crises  of  li^'e.  His  very  senses  seemed  to  be 
more  acute  than  usual.  Not  the  smallest 
detail  of  the  room  in  which  he  sat,  not  the 
most  trivial  peculiarity  of  the  men  who  were 
In  It,  escaped  him.  It  was  the  hungry  glance 
of  a  man  who,  in  full  possession  of  all  his 
faculties,  feels  that  he  is  bidding  farewell  to 
life. 

A  bright  fire  was  in  the  grate,  for  within 
the  stone  walls  It  was  cool.  His  eye  sought 
the  glowing,  sparkling,  joyous  flames,  and  he 
wondered  that  they  could  leap  so  gayly  in 
such  an  atmosphere.  The  clerk  and  one  of 
the  guards  laughed  at  some  little  jest.  He 
was  shocked  at  their  levity.    It  seemed  to 


A   STAB   IN  A   PBISON. 


41 


him  that  he  was  In  the  very  presence  of 
death.  Yet  it  was  a  living  death,  and  he 
shuddered. 

The  clerk  produced  a  large  book,  took  up 
his  pen,  and  proceeded  to  ask  Wilhelm  the 
usual  routine  of  questions.  Every  answer 
was  carefully  recorded,  then  the  j'^oung  man 
was  once  more  given  over  to  a  guide.  As 
they  entered  the  corridor  he  saw  men  going 
to  and  fro;  men  with  hard  visages,  each 
bearing  a  number  upon  his  shoulders. 
These,  then,  were  some  of  the  men  with 
whom  he  must  live.  He  Icnew  how  near, 
yet  he  little  realized  how  far  off  from  the 
most  of  them  he  should  ever  be. 

His  guide  now  conducted  him  to  a  bath- 
room, where  his  clothing  was  taken  away 
from  him,  and  a  prison  suit  substituted,  an 
ill  -  fitting  set  of  coarse,  gray  garments, 
bearing  the  number  875.  An  accurate  de- 
scription of  his  person,  and  of  every  mark 
upon  it,  was  written  down,  and  he  was 
taken  to  a  room  where  his  beautiful,  wav- 
ing hair  jjell  beneath  the  hair  -  cutter's 
scissors. 

As  the  relentless  blades  cringed  about  his 
head,  he  closed  his  eyen  and  sat  immovable 
as  a  statue;  but  his  clenched  hands  told  of 
the  turmoil  of  rebellion  within,  and  his  lips 
closed  until  but  a  line  of  white  appeared. 
As  the  soft  locks  fell,  touching  his  brow  and 
his  cheeks,  he  felt  the  bitter  bondage  of 
slavery  closing  upon  him.  His  will  was  his 
no  longer.  His  hands,  his  feet,  his  body, 
were  no  longer  his  to  use  as  he  pleased,  but 
were  parts  of  a  machine,  which  might  go 
only  at  the  bidding  of  another.  He  was  now 
the  slave  of  the  state,  whose  laws  he  was 
supposed  to  have  outraged;  he,  as  loyal  a 
supporter  of  right  and  law  as  had  ever 
drawn  breath.    Oh,  It  was  cruel,  cruel! 

Yet,  bitter  as  were  the  thoughts  that 
crowded  upon  him,  his  cup  yet  lacked  the 
drop  of  gall  which  renders  the  draught  of 
the  guilty  criminal  so  dreadful  upon  a  like 
occasion.  The  very  sense  of  not  deserving 
the  penalty  made  it  seem  lighter,  for  a  clear 


conscience  gives  the  spirit  wings,  even  when 
the  ,'iody  is  fettered. 

Wiihelm  was  then  measured,  his  height, 
the  size  of-  his  head,  the  length  of  his  arms 
and  middle  and  little  fingers,  being  accur- 
ately taken.  Then  he  was  given  into  a 
photographer's  care,  and  when  that  was 
over  he  was  left  for  a  time  in  a  room 
where,  through  a  barred  window,  he  could 
see  night  creeping  down.  Lights  began  to 
twinkle  afar  off.  Upon  the  rapidly  darken- 
ing water  beyond,  an  up-going  steamer  sped 
past,  its  windows  gleaming  like  a  string  of 
Jewels,  and  its  flash-lights  turning  in  every 
direction,  in  a  cone  of  soft  radiance. 
Beauty  and  peace  everywhere  without,  hor- 
ror and  despair  within! 

He  heard  the  tramp,  tramp  of  many  men 
echoing  through  the  great  corridor.  The 
prisoners  were,  then,  returning  from  work. 
He  was  not  required  to  form  in  line  with 
them  that  night,  but  was  presently  taken  to 
his  cell  alone.  Iron  gates  swung  again  be- 
fore him  and  his  guide,  and  were  closed 
with  a  relentless  click.  At  length  a  great, 
round  hall,  surmounted  by  a  lofty  dome,  and 
flagged  with  stone,  was  reached.  About  it 
ran  numerous  iron  galleries,  ascended  by 
means  of  narrow  iron  stairways. 

From  this  dome-covered  space  large  wings 
led  off  in  every  direction,  and  in  the  center 
of  each  wing  arose  a  huge,  cube-like  struc- 
ture, pierced  by  innumerable  doors  formed 
of  Iron  bars.  It  seemed  to  Wilhelm  like  an 
immense  catacomb,  honeycombed  with 
numberless,  rock-liewn  graves.  Towards  one 
of  these  iron  doors  he  was  now  conducted, 
and  above  It  he  noticed  a  placard  bearing 
the  same  number  which  he  now  bore  upon 
his  shoulders— 875.  Involuntarily  he  paused, 
before  entering  the  narrow,  wlndowless 
aperture.  He  was  ''eminded  by  the  guide 
that  this  was  his  ''ell.  He  stepped  in.  His 
supper  was  han''.ed  to  him  in  a  deep  tin 
dish.  The  Iror-grated  door  swung  behind 
him  Into  Its  rjace.  The  bolt  fell.  Wilhelm 
was  at  last  a  convict,  in  a  convict's  cell. 


42 


A  STAB   IN  A  FBI80N. 


I: 


■Sli 


He  could  eat  nothing,  bnt  sat  on  the  edge 
of  his  bed  for  hours,  looking  dreamily  out 
Into  the  dimly-lighted  passage,  where  a 
ghostly  light  burned  all  the  night  through. 
Then  he  crept  silently  Into  his  hard,  narrow 
cot.  At  intervals  a  hollow  cough  sounded 
from  a  neighboring  cell.  Occasionally  the 
passing  footsteps  of  a  guard  grew  fainter 
and  fainter  in  the  distance.  But  for  these 
all  was  still. 

As  he  lay  there  in  the  darliness,  his  mind 
was  worlting,  worliing.  Into  the  future  he 
could  not  look,  into  the  present  he  would 
not;  but  every  Incident  of  his  past  life 
floated  before  him  as  in  a  dream,  and  where 
links  were  all  but  forgotten,  he  wrestled 
with  memory  until  they  appeared. 

He  looked  again  upon  Fisherman  Jack  in 
his  cabin,  and  heard  the  swish  of  the 
water  lapping  upon  the  beach.  He  saw  the 
blue-eyed  child  who  ran  about  at  Jack's 
angry  bidding,  but  who  yet  was  free,  free,  in 
comparison  with  the  man  who  there  lay  in 
his  coffln-like  chamber  behind  the  bars. 
Again  his  mind  ran  on,  and  the  sweet, 
golden-haired  child  came  before  his  vision, 
the  child  who  had  gambolled  with  the  boy 
and  the  black  dog  in  those  happy  days  ere 
trouble  or  anxiety  or  care  had  entered  that 
earthly  Eden.  Once  more  the  scene  changed. 
He  lived  over  again  that  brief  hour  in  the 
woodland  dell  in  which  he  had  realized  that 
he  loved  her.  And  the  memory  was  not  all 
pain.  He  saw  the  beautiful  child  now 
grown  a  more  beautiful  maiden,  heard  the 
soft  tones  of  her  voice,  and  saw  the  sweet 
face  bathed  in  tears  because  of  his  sorrow. 
Ah,  he  loved  her  now  not  less  than  then. 
His  was  an  affection  which  stormy  vicissi- 
tudes of  life,  grief,  nay,  even  death  itself, 
could  not  change.  He  thought  o^  her  until 
she  became  woven  with  his  waking 
thought,  woven  with  his  dreams,  and  when 
at  last,  almost  at  daybrealc,  he  fell  into  a 
troubled  sleep,  it  w'as  with  the  shimmer  of 
her  golden  hair  before  his  eyes. 

In   the    morniug   the   sudden    clang   of   a 


gong  awoke  him.  He  sprang  out  of  bed  and 
dressed  hurriedly,  for  he  knew  that  no 
loitering  would  be  permitted.  In  a  few 
minutes  he  heard  the  tread  of  many  feet, 
as  of  men  marching  along  the  galleries,  but 
no  cheerful  "good-morning,"  no  sound  of 
word,  or  gay  whistle,  or  merry  laugh,  arose 
above  the  dull  thud,  thud,  that  echoed  to  the 
dome  above. 

Then  he  heard  the  locks  along  his  own  cor- 
ridor click.  He  stepped  out,  and  found  him- 
self marching  along  with  a  column  of  men, 

—  gray-coated,  shaven,  cropped  men  —  each 
bearing  the  fatal  number  on  his  shoulders. 
He  glanced,  with  a  sort  of  repulsive  horror, 
at  those  who  trudged  silently  ahead  of  him. 
The  visages  of  those  whom  he  could  see 
seemed  to  him  mostly  dull,  or  sullen,  or  mis- 
shapen; but  then,  he  had  not  had  time  to 
study  them  yet.  Still,  his  heart  bled  for 
them.  "Poor  fellows!"  he  thought,  "the 
wonder  is  that  they  are  not  wholly  idiotic! 
A  silent  life  and  a  guilty  conscience!  What 
punishment  could  be  worse  to  anyone  who 
had  a  trace  of  manhood  left?" 

He  glanced  at  the  one  who  marched  beside 
him.  His  face  was  shrewd  and  intellectual, 
but  lines  of  keenest  suffering  were  about  the 
mouth,  and  there  was  a  bitter,  hopeless  look 
In  the  dark,  sunlcen  eyes,  which  seemed  to 
flinch  under  Wilhelm's  straightforward 
glance.  Wilhelm  saw  in  him  at  once  a  gen- 
tleman who  had  fallen,  and  who  was  suffer- 
ing, not  only  from  the  restraint,  but  from 
reproaches  of  conscience.  He  was  evidently 
French.  The  black  hair,  the  sallow  skin,  the 
flne  features  and  slight,  lithe  build,  pro- 
claimed the  fact.  For  the  moment  Wilheln} 
felt  almost  glad  that  he  had  not  been  com- 
pelled to  walk  in  touch  Avith  one  of  the  lower 
class  —  for  there  are  classes  even  in  prison 

—  in  whose  faces  he  could  read  little  but 
sullen  indifference,  the  record  of  a  de- 
bauched life,  and-  excess  in  every  manner  of 
evil-doing. 

By  this  time  the  long  lines  were  ready  for 
breakfast.    Prisoner  attendants  stood  wait- 


A   STAR   IN  A  PRISON. 


43 


Ing  with  deep  tin  dishes  of  food,  and  huge 
piles  of  bread  cut  in  thick  slices.  As  the 
men  passed  in  rapid  succession  to  make 
way  for  those  who  were  swarming  down 
from  the  iron  galleries,  each  took  his  dish 
and  the  quantity  of  bread  which  he  required. 
Wilhelm  shrank  from  this  coarse  and  roughly 
served  prison  fare.  He  took  but  one  slice  of 
the  bread,  and  he  noticed  that  the  French- 
man, No.  869,  took  none  at  all,  while  others 
helped  themselves  to  six,  seven  or  eight 
great  slices. 

Turning  about,  the  long  line  tramped  back 
again  towards  the  cells,  and,  glancing  up- 
ward, Wilhelm  saw  that  the  galleries  above 
and  the  narrow  iron  stairs  were  filled  with 
single  flies  of  men  hurrying  on,  in  gray, 
wriggling  lines,  inside  of  the  iron  railings. 
At  the  word  of  a  keeper,  each  line  came  to  a 
halt,  with  one  simultaneous  movement,  the 
doors  were  opened  and  the  men  went  in. 
Then  the  doors  were  shut  again  with  an 
echoing  clang,  and  each  convict  proceeded 
to  eat  his  solitary  meal  within  the  gloom  of 
his  cell. 

The  awful,  mechanical  movement  of  it  all 
struck  Wilhelm  as  something  that  must,  in 
time,  grow  unbearable.  He  realized  that 
only  thus  could  order  and  system  and  econ- 
omy of  time  prevail,  and  that  the  prison  dis- 
cipline must  be  enforced.  Yet  he  was  inno- 
cent, and  his  whole  nature  cried  out 
against  this  enslaving  of  his  reet,  his  hands, 
his  Dody;  this  treating  of  him  as  though  he 
were  a  machine,  to  go  only  at  the  command 
of  a  keeper,  to  stop  only  at  his  word.  He 
was  innocent,  he  was  innocent!  he  kept 
crying  to  himself;  he  could  not  bear  this 
injustice!  As  he  sat  beside  his  almost  un- 
tdsted  breakfast,  his  hands  clenched,  and 
a  heavy  scowl  fuiTowed  his  smooth,  white 
brow. 

Then  other  thoughts  came  to  him.  His 
head  drooped,  and  a  heavy  sigh  burst  from 
his  lips.  The  brow  grew  smooth,  the  mouth 
tender,  and  when  the  call  came  for  the  men 
to  go  to  work,  his  face  was  calm,  and  his 


blue  eyes  looked  up  fearlessly  and  bravely. 
He  was  to  go  to  the  quarries. 

As  the  men  formed  in  line  he  once  more 
found  himself  beside  No.  8G9.  Walking  In 
step  with  him,  somewhat  heavily  by  reason 
of  the  heavy  prison  shoes,  he  passed  out 
with  the  others,  through  the  long  corridor, 
and  Into  the  yard,  whose  neat  walks  and 
velvety  grass  borders  bore  evidence  to  the 
spirit  of  prison  reform  that  really  charac- 
terized the  Canadian  penitentiary.  He 
looked  about  him.  Walls,  walls,  everywhere 
walls,  with  a  patch  of  blue  sky  framed  In 
betwef.  .  and  the  dark  figures  of  the  guards 
walking  along  on  top,  rifles  in  hand,  and 
outlined  darkly  against  the  clear,  morning 
sky.  On  their  approach  the  heavy  iron  gate 
at  the  rear  of  the  entrance-hall  turned 
slowly  open.  The  convicts  passed  through, 
and  thence,  between  the  graceful  pillars  of 
the  entrance,  into  the  free  air  beyond  the 
walls.  As  Wilhelm's  fine,  pale  face  again 
crossed  the  threshold,  the  guard  at  the  gate 
whispered,  "Fine-looking  fellow!  What  a 
pity!"  And  another  rejoined,  "  Face  as  in- 
nocent as  a  child's!  Who  would  have  be- 
lieved it!" 

On  up  the  road  went  the  convicts  —  the 
road  free  to  prattling  childrtn,  hay,  even  to 
the  dogs  of  the  street,  but  these  strong  men 
were  obliged  to  walk  in  close  order;  and  by 
their  side  walked  blue-coated  guards,  whose 
long  rifles  held  death  within  their  steel 
muzzles;  death,  relentless,  certain  as  fate, 
were  It  required  for  the  too-daring  one  who 
might  think  to  escape  the  prison  cell  by 
flight. 

On,  on,  past  a  waving,  glorious  wood,  and 
towards  a  grassy  field  bounded  by  a  high 
picket  fence,  and  guarded  by  the  tall  watch- 
tower  which  Wilhelm  had  noticed  on  the 
preceding  day.  And  the  convicts  knew  well 
that  within  that  tower  stood  armed  men 
whose  nerves  were  steady,  and  whose  duty 
must  be  done.  In  this  field  were  the  quar- 
ries, where,  day  by  day,  great  quantities  of 
the  solid  bed-rock  were  raised  from  its  hid- 


44 


A   8  TAB   IN  A  PRISON. 


den    bed    by    the    gray-clad    men   shuffling 
rapidly  towards  It. 

Wllhelm  glanced  at  the  man  beside  him. 
His  eyes  were  fixed  on  a  passing  cloud,  and 
a  look  of  unutterable  sorrow  was  on  his  pale 
face.  It  was  the  expression  of  a  man  whose 
conscience  Is  not  dead. 

"Poor  fellow!"  thought  Wllhelm.  "It  Is 
something  worse  than  prison  that  brings 
such-  a  look  Into  his  eyes.  Can  It  be  that  re- 
morse Is  eating  his  heart  out?  Perhaps  he 
Is  not  so  bad  after  all.  Heaven  only 
knows  what  temptation  he  has  had,  or 
how  many  men  with  worse  natures  than  his 
are  sitting  in  the  high  places  of  the  social 
world!" 

Wllhelm  felt  as  though  he  should  like  to 
speak  to  him,  to  ask  him  his  name;  but  that 
could  not  be,  so  he  was.  and  had  to  remain 
to  Wllhelm,  as  yet,  just  the  Frenchman,  No. 
869. 

At  last  the  gate  of  the  fl^d  was  reached. 
The  key  was  turned  in  the  heavy  padlock 
by  the  guard  who  walked  in  advance,  and 
the  convicts  passed  through,  walking  si- 
lently and  rapidly  towards  the  derricks 
that  marked  the  depression  from  which 
they  were  taking  the  huge  blocks  and  slabs 
of  cream-white  sandstone. 
.  The  men  took  up  their  Implements  of  toll, 
some  indifferently  and  stupidly,  others  sul- 
lenly and  resentfully;  some  with  a  piteous 
patience,  others  with  a  savage  and  feverish 
energy  which  betrayed  the  restlessness  of 
minds  that  sought  lethe  in  the  exhaustion 
of  physical  labor.  For  the  present  Wllhelm 
belonged  to  the  latter  class.  His  first  task 
was  not  a  very  heavy  one,  but  he  plied  his 
hammer  with  a  restless  vigor,  a  sort  of 
feverlshness,  that  soon  wearied  his  weak- 
ened body.  His  hands,  too,  were  white  and 
soft  and  tender,  and  long  before  the  noon 
hour  came,  painful  red  patches  were  appear- 
ing on  his  delicate,  girl-Uke  palms.  He  was 
compelled  to  work  less  fiercely,  though  he 
dared  not  stop  to  rest.  His  blows  fell  less 
rapidly,  and  he  stopped  for  a  moment  to 


regain  his  breath.    One  of  the  convicts  who 
was  passing  him  half  whispered: 

'*  I  thought  you  couldn't  keep  that  up  long, 
mate." 

The  voice  sounded  strangely  familiar  to 
Wllhelm,  and  he  raised  his  fair,  boyish  face 
to  look  at  the  speaker.  Each  gazed  at  the 
other  for  a  brief  moment  in  recognition, 
then  Wllhelm  exclaimed,  "Jack!" 

Yes,  It  was  none  other  than  Jack.  Jack, 
with  his  bushy  beard  all  shaven,  and  a  sul- 
len, bitter,  hardened  look  on  his  face.  For  a 
moment  his  eyes  brightened  a  little,  then, 
with  a  hasty  glance  at  an  approaching 
guard,  he  passed  on.  A  moment  later  Wll- 
helm, turning,  caught  Jack's  gaze  fixed  upon 
him  in  a  sort  of  pained  surprise. 

The  young  man  bent  again  over  his  work, 
with  a  hot  flush  upon  his  face.  Even  rough 
Fisherman  Jack,  then,  condemned  him! 
Later  in  the  day  he  heard  the  voice  whisper 
again: 

"  I  never  thought  you'd  turn  out  bad. 
Bunny.    I  thought  you  were  a  good  one!"' 

Wilhelm's  breath  came  fast.  "  I  am  an 
Innocent  man,  Jack!"  he  whispered. 

Jack  looked  at  him  sharply  for  a  moment. 
"Aye,  I  believe  you,"  he  said,  and  passed 
on. 

As  Wllhelm  turned  to  his  task  again,  his 
eye  fell  upon  a  man  who  was  working  near 
him,  and  who  had  overheard  his  declaration, 
"  I  am  an  innocent  man."  It  was  No.  869. 
Oh,  what  a  hungering,  longing  look  was 
there!  What  a  world  of  meaning  was  in  that 
one  timid,  envious  glance!  It  said,  as  plainly 
as  in  words^  that  he,  poor  No.  869,  would 
have  given  life  itself  to  be  able  to  say  those 
precious  words.  Immediately  the  dark, 
deep-set  eyes  drooped.  The  man  was  hack- 
ing aAvay  again  at  the  stubborn  stone,  and 
Wllhelm  noticed  how  frail  and  weak  the 
body  was,  and  how  emaciated  were  the 
bands. 

The  youth  brushed  away  a  suspicious 
dimness  from  his  eyes.  He  pitied  this  man 
from  the  bottom  of  his  heart;  pitied  him 


A   STAB    IN  A   PRISON. 


45 


most  because  he  saw  in  him  great  possibil- 
ities wasted,  thrown  aside  with  prodigal 
hand.  He  wondered  what  his  life  had  been 
and  why  he  was  here.  He  wondered  if  he 
might  ask  at  least  his  name.  He  did  not 
want  to  do  what  was  contrary  to  rules,  but, 
though  conversation  was  In  nearly  all  cases 
strictly  forbidden,  he  observed  that  in  ^he 
quarries  where  men  had  often  to  assist  each 
other  in  their  work,  they  were  permitted  to 
speak  occasionally  in  low  tones,  but  to  hold 
no  uninterrupted  conversation  for  even  a 
moment's  time.  Even  then  their  remarks 
were  supposed  to  be  about  their  work.  This 
accounted  for  Jack's  lew,  halt-fearful  words. 

Noon  came,  and  with  it  the  march  back  to 
the  penitentiary,  whose  great  dome  arose 
below  the  hill.  Wilhelm  was  so  weary  that 
he  fain,  would  have  lain  upon  his  cot  to  rest. 
He  was  not  yet  fully  strong  after  his  illness. 
But  there  could  be  no  rest  yet.  Once  more 
he  must  march  over  the  dusty  road  and  take 
up  his  tools.  The  autumn  was  unusually 
warm,  and  the  sun  shone  down  hot  and  piti- 
less. His  hands  grew  more  and  more  pain- 
ful, and  white  blisters  came  out  upon  the 
soft  flesh.  His  head  ached,  and  he  grew 
almost  faint.  He  was  engaged  in  separating 
a  slab  of  the  stone,  and  as  he  bent  over  it 
he  felt  as  though  he  should  fall.  Then  a 
hammer,  wielded  by  a  powerful  hand,  fell 
upon  it  in  heavy  blows,  and  a  pick,  swung 
by  the  same  strong  arm,  completed  the  oper- 
ation. It  was  Fisherman  Jack,  Wilhelm 
looked  up  gratefully  and  murmured,  "Thank 
you."  Jack  answered  not  a  word.  Without 
bestowing  even  a  glance  upon  Wilhelm,  he 
strode  off. 

Wilhelm  was  deeply  pained  at  seeing 
Jack  in  prison.  Altliough  in  those  old  days 
by  the  lake  he  had  feared  the  man.  he  had 
not  wholly  disliived  him.  Tender  memories, 
though  few,  were  still  connected  with  that 
early  period,  for  Jack  had  been  the  only 
father  of  his  early  childhood,  and  had  some- 
times been  kind  to  the  fair-haired  lad.  He 
recollected  that  when  Jack  had  abused  him 


he    was    almost    Invariably    under    the    in-   ' 
flueuce  of  drink,  and  he  surmised  tliat  the 
fisherman  was  now  in  prison  owing  to  some 
act  committed  at  such  a  time. 

When  the  evening  at  last  fell,  Wilhelm 
sank  wearily  down  upon  a  block  of  stone. 
His  detachment  of  convicts  was  the  last  to 
leave  the  field,  and  while  waiting  for  the 
order  to  move  forward,  he  watched  the  gray, 
moving  lines,  sliuffling  off  past  the  watch- 
tower  towards  the  gate,  followed  by  the 
ever-vigilant  guards  with  their  rifles  upon 
their  shoulders. 

Then  the  order  came  to  fall  into  line.  He 
arose  and  dragged  his  aching  limbs  into  his 
place.  The  order,  "Forward!"  was  given, 
and  soon  the  dry,  waving  grass  of  the  field 
was  left  behind,  and  no  sound  was  heard 
save  the  heavy  tramp,  tramp,  tramp  of  the 
men  down  the  white,  dusty  road  towards  the 
great  dome  below. 

Wilhelm  was  indeed  glad  when  he  could 
once  more  throw  himself  down  upon  his 
narrow  bed.  That  night,  out  of  utter  ex- 
haustion, li  slept  a  heavy  and  dreamless 
sleep,  from  liich  he  awoke  refreshed  and 
in  better  Condition  for  his  work.  He  did  not 
again  during  that  week  have  any  inter- 
change of  words  with  Jack,  but  more  than 
once  when  the  youth  was  wrestling  with 
an  unusually  dilticult  part  of  his  task,  the 
great,  strong  Arm  of  his  former  foster-  , 
father  toolc  the  heaviest  part  of  the  work, 
and  Wilhelm  was  deeply  touched. 

However,  as  the  days  went  by,  the  youth 
grow  more  accustomed  to  the  labor,  and  his 
muscles  grew  firmer.  Then  his  work  slowly 
settled  down  into  the  dreary,  mechanical 
monotony  of  a  daily  treadmill,  and  he  began 
.to  chafe  more  and  more  against  his  fate. 
He  felt  as  though  he  must  lose  his  reason 
ore  he  had  put  in  ten  years  of  this  silent, 
slavish  drudgery,  and  he  began  almost  to 
hate  the  glaring  white  road  and  the  hazy 
sun,  which  was  sinking  each  day  farther 
and  farther  to  the  south.  Yet  he  dreaded  to 
look  forward  to  the  long  winter,  with  its 


46 


A   STAR   IN  A  PRISON. 


m 


m 


new  toll,  which  would  necessitate  remain- 
ing constantly  within  the  walls.  lie  for- 
got Jack,  forgot  poor  No.  8(59.  Wholly  occu- 
pied with  his  own  misery,  he  lost  sight  of 
theirs.  It  made  hlra  almost  frantic  to  think 
that  the  very  best  part  of  his  life  was  to  be 
thus  thrown  away;  that  every  ambition, 
every  hope  for  the  future,  was  to  be  thus 
overthrown,  and  that  he  must  go  out  at  the 
end  of  his  terra  a  branded,  despised  crea- 
ture, spurned  from  every  mau's  door  as  the 
very  scum  of  the  earth. 

He  brooded  over  his  troubles  every  day, 
and  kept  them  before  him  in  his  cell  every 
night,  until  his  life  grew  unbearable.  He 
now  took  little  comfort  in  knowing  that  he 
was  Innocent.  He  tried  to  pray,  but  his 
prayers  arose  from  a  heart  hard  as  the  stone 
which  he  handled  day  by  day.  Unwillingly 
he  was  beginning  to  have  a  conviction  that 
there  could  be  no  God.  else  why  this  injus- 
tice? 

During  these  terrible  days  but  one  thing 
kept  him  from  absolute  recklessness  —  his 
love  for  Gertrude  and  his  grandfather. 
That  one  touch  of  the  divine,  still  kept  alive 
In  him,  was  his  salvation.  In  his  moments 
of  deepest  misery  the  thought  of  them  came 
as  a  balm  upon  his  spirit,  and  for  their  sakes 
he  grew  more  patient,  less  bitter. 

But  his  most  awful,  haunting  fear  was 
the  consciousness  of  his  loss  of  confidence 
in  God.  He  went  to  the  chapel  on  Sundays, 
but  there  was  little  comfort  in  the  services 
for  him.  The  man  who  preached  was  not  in 
touch  with  his  hearers.  He  spoke  from  a 
sense  of  duty,  and  as  though  from  a  height 
of  superiority  unattainable  to  his  pitiful 
audience.  His  sermons  were  a  series  of 
flowery  harangues,  with  occasional  conven-. 
tioual  appeals  and  set  phrases  of  religious 
exhortation,  which  could  have  no  effect 
upon  the  hearts  of  the  men  who  sat  listen- 
ing to  him  with  folded  arms  and  cold  faces. 

Then  came  a  vague  rumor  of  a  new  chap- 
lain. The  news  spread  slowly  among  the 
prisoners,  and  awakened  in  them  the  excite- 


ment which  any  novelty  possesses  for  men 
whose  changeless  life  is  continually  hedged 
in  between  four  walls.  Wllhelm,  however, 
was  at  that  time  In  such  a  state  that  he 
heard  of  the  new  chaplain's  arrival  with  but 
little  interest. 

One  night  he  was  sitting  In  bis  cell, 
moodily  thinking.  He  had  been  attempting 
to  read  one  of  the  books  from  the  prison 
library,  but,  though  his  light  was  still  burn- 
ing, the  book  had  fallen  from  his  hand,  and 
he  was  sitting  on  the  edge  of  his  cot  with 
drooping  head.  He  was  feeling  utterly 
hopeless  and  alone.  A  keeper  had  just 
piissed,  bearing  letters  for  some  of  the  con- 
victs. For  Wllhelm,  alas!  there  was  never 
one.  None  of  the  gay  band  of  companions 
with  whom  he  had  laughed  and  talked  In  the 
dear  old  capital,  had  ever  sent  even  one 
message  of  sympathy  or  encouragement. 
Day  by  day  he  had  seen  the  keepir  advanc- 
ing with  the  letters.  Day  by  day  he  had 
watched,  through  the  bars,  with  a  face  of 
hungry  longing.  But  the  keeper  had  ever 
passed  on  without  even  glancing  at  the  cell, 
and  Wllhelm  had  turned  away  again  with  a 
cold,  gnawing  pain  at  his  heart. 

To-night  he  was  thinking  of  Gertrude, 
Gertrude  who  was  still  his  friend,  for  she  at 
least  was  beyond  reach  of  the  calumnies 
which  had  assailed  his  name  on  every  side. 
He  wondered  where  she  was,  and  if  she 
were  a  little  happy.  He  wondered  if  she 
thought  of  him  often,  and  If  she  would  ever 
find  out  his  sad  story.  He  wondered  if  she 
still  believed  in  God's  goodness  as  she  used 
to  do.  The  tliouglit  brought  a  sad  smile  to 
his  lips.  Ah,  Wilhelm  was  drifting  far  from 
his  heavenly  Father,  yet  that  Father  was 
tenderly  near  would  he  but  have  seen  him. 

Presently  he  heard  the  bolt  of  his  cell 
drawn  back.  Some  one  entered,  and  Wil- 
helm looked  up  to  see  a  sweet,  familiar  face 
beaming  down  upon  him.  For  a  moment  he 
could  not  realize  who  it  was.  It  was  a  man 
dressed  in  black,  and  wearing  a  venerable 
beard  slightly  tinged  with  gray.    The  face 


iu..«rf* 


A   STAR   IN  A   PRISON. 


47 


drew  Wllhelm's  gaze  with  a  sort  of  fascina- 
tion, so  kindly,  so  pure,  so  tender,  yet  so 
well   known    was    It.     He   looked    Into   tht 
deep,  loving  eyes,  and  fought  with  recollec- 
tion.      Then      his 
glance    fell    to    the 
bands.     One    was 
weak  and   withered, 
though     white     and 
shapely  withal.  Then 
all  came  back.    WIl- 
helm  saw  again  the 
deep,  cool  canal,  with 
i  t  s     wooded     banks 
fading    in    the    twi- 
light.    He  heard  the 
plash    of    oars,    and 
saw    the    gentle 
face     of     the     coi- 
p  o  r  t  e  u  r       shining 
through    the    gloom. 
He    heard    the    echo 
of  a  sweet  voice  say- 
ing, "  Even  In  prison 
they  may  have  risen 
above  their  environ- 
ment, and  soared  to 
heights    which    they 
never  could  have  at- 
t  a  i  n  e  d    otherwise. 
God  is  here,   within 
us,     if     we     will. 
Where    God     is,,   is 
heaven." 

Ah,  as  he  looked 
upon  this  man's  face, 
how  the  snatches  of 
that  conversation 
came  ringing  down 
the  years  of  the 
past,  striking  upon 
Wllhelm's  ears  with  a  sound  sweet 
faint  as  tKat  of  a  heavenly  chord! 

"  The  warden  has  been  telling  me  of  you, 
Mr.  Steinhoff,"  now  said  those  same  sweet 
tones.  "  I  have  taken  the  liberty  of  coming 
to  see  you." 


Yes,  It  was— It  was  the  colporteur!    Wll- 

helni  sprang  to  his  feet  and  grasped  him  by 

the  hand.    The  other  returned  the  pressure 

warmly,  and  looked  Into  the  now  glowing 

face    with    an    expression    of 

kindly  Inquiry. 

"  Don't  you  remember  me?" 


Wllhelm  sat  leaning  on  the  edge  of  his  bed  for  hours.— See  page  42. 


and 


asked  the  young  man  eagerly.  "  Don't  you 
remember  the  boy  who  rowed  you  down  the 
canal  years  ago?" 

"Why,  certainly,"  returned  the  low,  calm 
voice;  "is  this  the  lad?" 

There  was,  perhaps,  an  almost  impercep- 


48 


A  STAR   IN  A  PBISON. 


liii 


tlble  note  of  surprise  In  the  acceat,  and  WIl- 
helm  droppod  his  head.  He  hud  forgotten 
that  he  waa  a  convict,  branded  as  a  crim- 
inal. 

"  Pardon  my  presumption,"  he  stammered. 
"  I  —  I  liad  f  orK'otten." 

The  other  seated  himself  on  the  cot  and 
drew  Willielm  down  beside  him. 

"  There  is  no  presumption,  dear  boy,"  he 
said.  "  We  will  be  able  to  renew  our  friend- 
ship, will  \ve  not?  You  see  I  expect  to  be 
here  the  most  of  my  time.  I  am  the  new 
chaplain." 

There  was  no  tone  of  condescension  in  the 
simple  greeting,  notlilng  but  the  courteous 
simplicity  with  which  one  gentleman  may 
spealc  to  another.  Wllhelm  looited  again 
into  the  magnet'c  face,  more  saint-like  even 
than  of  yore,  and  felt  the  thrill  of  brotherly 
love  spring  up  at  the  touch  of  the  gentle 
hand.  Hope.agaln  lived  in  his  heart,  and  he 
felt  once  more  a  man,  not  the  despised  con- 
vict, No.  875. 

"  I  am  very  glad  you  have  come  here,"  he 
said.  "Just  now  I  was  feeling,  Iceeniy 
enough,  the  need  of  — of  a  friend." 

The  chaplain's  eyes  grew  strangely  ten- 
der. He  loved  as  much  as  he  pitied  these 
men, 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  do  not  wonder  that 
you  feel  lonely  sometimes.  It  is  an  un- 
natural state  of  affairs  that  separates  man 
from  tis  fellow-men.  That  is  not  as  God 
planned  it  should  be.  He  rejoices  when 
we  have  friends  and  home  and  happi- 
ness. He  is  glad,  I  am  sure,  at  this  our 
meeting." 

Wilhelm  turned  sharply  upon  him. 

"Then  why,"  he  asked,  "does  he  allow 
the  state  of  things  to  exist  which  has  helped 
to  drive  many  a  man  here?  The  liquor 
traffic,  for  instance.  While  it  continues, 
men  will  continue  to  commit  crime.  Why 
does  not  God  stop  it?  While  poverty  lasts 
men  will  cut  through  hades  Itself  to  rid 
themselves  of  it.  Why  are  not  things 
equalized?" 


Wilhelm  spoke  passionately,  longingly. 
His  bitter,  atlielstic  impulses  were  not  ren- 
dering him  happy,  tlrough  he  was  honest  in 
them. 

"  Dear  lad,"  returned  the  low,  gentle 
voice,  "  how  could  people  be  free  if  God 
compelled  them  to  act  In  any  way,  even 
though  that  waj  >vere  right?  How  could 
people  love  Gotl,  who  is  Love,  and  the  source 
of  all  truth  and  right,  if  lie  took  the  power 
of  choice  away  from  them?" 

He  paused  and  looked  searchingly  into  the 
young,  boyish  face.  "  My  dear  boy,"  he 
continued,  "  God  wants  us  to  be  men,  not 
machines.  If  we  be  men,  we  must  choose. 
If  we  be  Christians,  we  must  choose  the 
right  In  spite  of  every  circumstance." 

Wilhelm  was  pondering  deeply. 

"  Then  you  think  that  choice  has  been  of- 
fered to  all  these  men,  even  to  the  lowest, 
and  that  each  one  has  recognized  the  possi- 
bility of  it?"  he  asked. 

"  I  should  say  so,"  returned  tt  plain 

with  a  sigh.  "  God  could  not  leave  his  chil- 
dren ever  out  in  the  cold.  He  must  plead 
with  tliem  in  some  way;  they  must  choose 
him  or  refuse.  They  must  take  him  as  their 
dear  Friend,  their  Companion  and  Father,  or 
else  they  must  go  their  own  way,  unhappy, 
erring  perhaps,  and  alone,  because  away 
from  him." 

"  But  look  at  the  different  chances  people 
have!"  cried  Wilhelm,  with  a  deep  tremor 
In  his  voice.  "  One  boy  is  brought  up  in  a 
Christian  home,  with  Christian  teaching; 
another  lives  all  his  life  amid  the  evil 
of  the  slums.  How  can  the  one  love 
God  or  even  know  of  him  as  the  other 
does?" 

The  chaplain  turned  his  face,  full  of  love 
and  tenderness,  towards  the  unhappy  young 
man. 

"  He  cannot,  perhaps,"  was  the  low  reply. 
"  Yet  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  the  boy  in 
the  slums  has  his  own  promptings  towards 
the  right.  I  am  sure  God  considers  all  the 
circumstances.    My  dear  lad,  one  thing  we 


T 


A  8TAB   IN  A   PBISOIT, 


49 


3  the 

he 

not 

oose. 

the 

* 


know:  God  Is  abHolutely  Just.  He  mnkos  i/^ 
mistake  in  couHideiin^  tlicso  thiiitjs.  He 
probes  the  motives  of  each  man  down  to  the 
very  root,  and  he  will  do  what  is  well 
towards  every  soul." 

He  stopped  8i»eaklng  for  a  moment  and 
looked  off  tlirough  the  bars,  with  a  rapt 
expression  upon  his  countenance. 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  said,  '*  sometimes  I 
think  we  shall  be  surprised  at  how  many 
people  we  meet  in  heaven  —  th(>  future 
heaven,  I  mean,"  he  added.  "  The  trouble  is 
that  so  many  miss  the  heaven  they  might 
have  here." 

He  suddenly  turned,  and  the  radiant  light 
of  truth  was  in  his  eyes.  "  Yes,"  he  said, 
"  God  is  Love.    Can  we  not  trust  his  love?" 

The  look,  the  tone,  the  earnestness  of  the 
speaker,  brought  the  words  home  to  Wil- 
helm's  heart.  He  dropped  his  face  in  his 
hands,  and  a  wave  of  remorse  f'  his  own 
heartlessness  and  his  own  doubt  swept 
over  him.  His  old,  child-like  faith  returned, 
and  tears  dropped  through  between  his  fin- 
gers. 

The  chaplain's  own  eyes  grew  dim  as  he 
looked  upon  the  bowed,  shaven  head  of  the 
convict,  and  noted  the  quiver  of  suppressed 
emotion  that  was  passing  over  him.  He  had, 
he  thought,  said  enough  for  the  present.  In 
a  moment  he  arose  and  placed  his  hand 
upon  Wilhelm's  shoulder. 
'"  Mr.  Steinhoff,"  he  said,  "  I  shall  see  you 
again  often.  I  am  sorry  for  you,  lad.  You 
must  be  very  lonely  here.  But  remember, 
whatever  your  past  may  have  been,  you 
may  still  become  strong,  triumphant,  even  in 
this  prison.  Nay,  you  may  even  rejoice  in 
it,  if  you  will  but  come  close  to  Jesus  and 
stay  there  ever.  The  past  is  gone,  the  future 
is  before  you." 

He  paused  and  when  he  spoke  again  the 
tone  was  even  lower  and  sweeter  than  be- 
fore. "You  are  in  a  narrow  cell,"  he  said, 
"  but  Jesus  can  fill  it  with  his  own  radiance. 
Ask  him  to  help  you.  Trust  in  him,  dear 
lad,  for  he  is  love.    Good-night." 


Wllhelm  looked  up  and  grasped  the  chap- 
lain's arm.  "  I  tlilnic  heaven  must  have  sent 
you  to  me,"  he  said.  **  Come  often."  Then 
—lie  oonld  not  U't  this  man  go  without  know- 
ing his  name—"  What  am  I  to  call  you?"  he 
asked. 

"  Francis  Hare."  replied  tlie  other,  "  Is  my 
name.  Good-night,  and  sweet  dreams  to 
you." 

Wllhelm  gave  a  start  of  surprise,  bat  the 
chaplain  did  not  see  It.  He  closed  the  door 
and  a  keeper  fastened  it  for  the  night,  then 
his  footsteps  echoed  down  the  stone-paved 
corridor. 

"  Hare— Hare!"  murmured  Wllhelm;  "how 
strange  that  he  should  have  my  own  naniel 
But  "—and  the  convict  thought  of  his  friend- 
less childhood-"  'tis  only  a  coincidence.  I 
shall  not  tell  him  my  name.  It  is  not  a  con- 
vict's place  to  claim  kinship  even  in  a 
name." 

Then  Wllhelm  fell  upon  his  knees.  He 
prayed  that  he  might  understand  some- 
thing, even  If  it  were  but  little,  of  this 
depth  of  divine  love  which  he  had  been 
slighting. 

He  arose  and  went  to  bed,  but  he  could 
not  sleep.  For  hours  he  lay  awake,  and  it 
seemed  that  all  the  feeling,  all  the  affec- 
tions of  his  life,  burned  with  redoubled  in- 
tensity during  those  hours  of  waking.  He 
thought  of  Hermann,  whom  he  had  loved 
and  venerated;  Hermann,  who  had  proved 
unworthy  of  his  confidence;  he  thought  of 
Gertrude,  and  longed,  with  unspeakable 
longing,  for  the  sound  of  her  voice,  the 
touch  of  her  hand.  Yet  he  thought  of  her 
with  Intense  pain,  for  she  had  rejected  his 
love.  His  brow  grew  hot,  then  cold.  Heavy 
and  wet,  the  perspiration  came  out  upon  his 
forehead,  and  the  unwavering  light,  shining 
from  the  corridor,  fell,  barred  with  black 
shadows,  through  the  grated  door  upon  his 
clenched  hands.  He  agonized  because, 
though  loving,  he  was  loveless. 

Then  a  vision  comes  to  him.  He  sees  a 
garden  of  old,  gnarled  trees,  through  which 


•llmMMll       'W?<fff.y"?'^'"g^!i;i-'!;,'-'r!! 


50 


A   STAB   IN  A  PBISOm 


the  moon  struggles  fitfully.  A  INIan  Is  bowed 
in  anguish  there,  but  on  his  bro>T  are  drops 
of  blood— great  cruel  drops.  And  why?  Bo- 
cause  he  loves  a  sinful  world,  and  is  not 
loved. 

Ah,  Wilhelm  can  catch  the  faintest 
glimpse  of  that  anguish  now! 

"  Jesus,"  he  whispers,  "  I  iove  thee!"  Over 
and  over  again  he  ropects  this. 

He  sees  the  Man  go  to  the  cross.  Awful 
loneliness!  Awful  torture!  And  for  what 
reason?  This  Man  is  going  of  his  own  free 
will. 

Ah,  that  the  poor,  erring  world  which  he 
loves  may  see  his  love,  may  realize  what  he 
Is,  and  turn  from  sin!  "He  will  save  his 
people  from  their  sins." 

"Oh,  blessed  Lord!"  exclaims  Wilhelm. 
Now  that  Is  all  his  prayer,  just  exclama- 
tions of  love  and  devotion.  Wilhelm  has 
given  but  a  drop  of  his  blood,  his  life,  for 
love's  sake,  yet  he  can  understand  a  little 
better  the  spirit  of  the  Lord  Jesus. 

•'Blessed  Lord!"  he  cries  again,  and  a 
great  joy  fills  his  heart. 

Henceforth  Wilhelm  was  a  new  man,  in  a 
new  earth,  albeit  that  earth  was  a  prison- 
house.  He  had  "risen  above  his  environ- 
ment." 


CHAPITER  XI. 

DOROTHY  IN  THE  BEL- 
LEAU  HOUSEHOT^D. 

JET  US  now  glance  for  <i 
few  moments  upon  a 
little     scene     which 
might  have  been  ob- 
served, had  one  been 
there    to    see,    in    a 
very    small    and 
poorly  furnished,  yet 
very    cheerful    room 
of  a  small  cottage  'n  Lov/er  Town,   upon 
one  of  those  waiui  autumn  days.     It  was 


In  the  home  of  Adolphe  Belleau  and  his 
sister. 

Through  the  south  window,  gay  with  pots 
of  scarlet  geranium,  the  sun  came  creeping 
gently,  casting  its  brightness  in  a  checkered 
."tch  upon  the  cleanly-scoured  pine  floor, 
and  seeming  to  reflect  Its  radiance  up  to  the 
snowy  cloth  on  the  table  and  the  white 
spread  on  the  bed.  It  did  not  occur,  per- 
haps, to  the  little  group  gathered  In  the 
small  room  that  that  same  afternoon  sun 
was  reeking  down  its  beams  upon  the  hot, 
glaring  limestone  of  a  quarry  in  which  the 
one  of  whom  they  spoke  was  silently 
working. 

Upon  the  bed  Agnes  lay,  with  the  flush 
of  returning  health  on  her  cheek.  Beside 
her,  gently  stroking  the  thin,  white  hand, 
sot  Dorothy,  as  sweet  as  a  rose,  dressed  In 
her  favorite  color,  pink.  And  upon  a  foot- 
stool near,  holding  his  knee  with  his  hands, 
sal  Adolphe.  Adolphe,  jaunty  and  self- 
possessed  as  ever,  with  his  straight  black 
hair  wetted  and  combed  until  it  showed  the 
trace  of  every  tooth  in  the  comb,  and  with  a 
flower  in  his  button-hole. 

Agnes  had  never  seen  Adolphe  greatly 
agitated  except  upon  one  occasion.  That 
was  on  the  evening  of  Wilhelm  Stelnhoff's 
trial.  He  had  returned  that  night  with 
flushed  face  and  blazing  eyes,  and  when  she 
asked  him  what  was  wrong,  he  had  thrown 
himself  down  with  his  face  upon  her  pillow 
and  sobbed.  Since  the'^  he  had  stoutly  main- 
taJned  his  belief  In  Wilhelm's  Innocence,  as- 
serting for  his  grounds  of  thinking  so  that 
nc  "  knew  dat  man  not  guilty.  De  ole  wan 
all  to  blame." 

This  afternoon  he  had  just  finished  giving 
Dorothy  an  account  of  the  trial,  recounting 
with  many  a  gesture  the  arguments  as 
given  by  both  sides,  and  inveighing  with  all 
his  might  against  the  decision  of  the  judge 
and  the  jury,  whom  he  classed  es  '"wan 
pack  of  stupldes." 

"Heem  guilty  no  more  dan  Adolphe  Bel- 
leau is  guilty!"  he  finally  exclaimed.    "Dat 


. 


".'.'iF'-.-i'lifiTuT,. 


■I  f-^i'r-K^^T'ni 


A   STAR   IN  A  PRISON, 


51 


sun 
if^  hot, 


Monsieur  Sanders,  heem  t'ink  heem  do 
great  t'lngs,  Heem  very  smart  detective!" 
and  tlie  Freneli  boy  gave  a  contemptuous 
shrug. 

"  But  every  circumstance  seemed  to  be 
against  young  Mr.  Steinhoff,"  remarlced 
Dorothy.  "  I  do  not  see  that  the  detective 
was  at  ali  to  blame." 

Adolphe  gave  another  shrug.  "  Well,  I  do 
know  wan  t'ing,  Mademoiselle  Cameron,"  he 
replied.  "  dat  if  ever  I  can  find  dat  ole  Her- 
mann Steinhoff,  I  will  keep  to  him  like  wan 
leech,  till  de  truf  come  out.  He  is  de  wan 
w'at  mus'  clear  dis  Wilhelm." 

"  But  they  are  in  Europe,"  returned  the 
girl.  "  How  could  you  ever  hope  to  find  him, 
Adolphe?" 

"  Dat  is  so,"  replied  Adolphe,  and  his  coun- 
tenance fell.  "If  he  is  in  Europe,  den  Mon- 
sieur Wilhelm  is  done  for."  Then  he  got  up 
and  went  siov^^iy  out.  He  did  not  imagine, 
upon  that  bright  afternoon,  that  he  had 
done  anything  which  could  ever  bear  in  the 
slightest  degree  upon  the  fortunes  of  the 
Steinhoff  family;  yet  he  had  succeeded  in 
interesting  Dorothy  Cameron  intensely  in 
the  young  man  whom  he  believed  an  inno- 
cent sufferer,  and  in  the  golden-haired  girl 
of  whom  he  had  given,  in  his  own  way,  a 
vivid  description. 

"  She  very  sweet,  so  sweet  as  Madem- 
oiselle Cameron  in  de  face.  She  very  golden 
hair,  all  bright,  like  de  stfttue  on  de  Basilica 
w'en  de  sun  shines  from  de  west." 

When  Adolphe  bad  gone  the  two  girls,  the 
one  strong,  beautil'iii  and  wealthy,  the  other 
weak,  equally  handsome,  yet  poor,  relapsed 
into  that  sweet  personal  conversation  which 
ever  followed  Dorothy  Cameron's  t6te-i!i-ii:0te 
chats  with  her  girl  friends. 

•'  W'at  makes  you  so  good  to  me?"  asked 
Agnes,  wonderlngly. 

"What  a  qrestion,  Agnes!'*  exclaimed 
Dorothy,  with  a  Siiiile.  "  Because  I  like  you, 
of  course." 

The  sick  girli  smiled  back  again.  "It 
seems  to  me  streuge."  abe  said,  "dat  great 


lady  like  you  is  care  for  jvorking-girl,  very 
poor,  like  me." 

Dorothy  held  up  a  small,  white  finger  In 
reproach. 

"  Now,  Agnes,"  she  said,  "  you  are  of  Just 
as  much  account  as  I,  you  know  you  are! 
It  is  very  honorable  to  work.  I  believe  I'd 
like  it,  only  I  wouldn't  care  to  be  very  poor. 
Jesus  was  a  carpenter,  and  his  best  friends 
on  earth,  when  he  lived  in  Palestine,  were 
people  wlio  worked  too."  * 

"  And  you  toll  me  many  times  dat  he  care 
for  me,  too,  like  dat,"  remarked  Agnes, 
thoughtfully. 

"  Certainly,"  returned  Dorothy.  "  He  loves 
everybody,  and  he  wants  us  to  love  one 
another.  He  said,  'This  is  my  command- 
ment, that  ye  love  one  another,  as  1  have 
loved  you.' " 

Agnes  closed  her  eyes  and  lay  for  a  mo- 
ment thinking,  then  she  opened  them  and 
her  earnest  gaze  rested  upon  Dorothy's  face. 

"  Mademoiselle  Cameron,"  she  said,  "  If 
all  de  people  dey  was  always  so  kind,  so 
good  as  you,  it  would  have  been  den  more 
easy  for  me  to  be  good,  too.  Long  time  ago, 
'fore  you  and  de  kind  doctor  came  to  us,  we 
were  very  poor,  you  can  know  not  how  poor, 
Mademoiselle.  Sometimes  den  I  have  nc 
work,  den  we  have  leetle  to  eat.  'It  is  not 
pleasant  to  have  not  enough  satisfy  hunger. 
Den  I  wear  rags.  De  people  pass  me  by. 
Dey  treat  me  as  dirt  of  de  street.  I  gi"ow  in 
despair.  I  t'ink  nobody  cares  for  me.  If  I 
go  hell,  M''at  matter?  I  tell  no  wan  for 
pride.  You  wonner,  Mademoiselle,  but  In 
dem  days  I  steal  'fore  I  beg.  Not  so  now. 
I  pass  a  grocer  stand  or  shoit  of  a  rneat-maUy 
I  see  so  nice  vegetable,  so  t'ick  fish  near. 
X  reach  my  hand  to  steaJ,  den  I  t'ink  of 
Adolphe.  I  say  to  myself,  '  For  Adolphe  1 
will  do  w'at  is  gootj,   Adolphe  be  never  steal, 


no,  never,  never!    So,  you 


w'en  I  grow 


frantic,  I  t'ink  of  Adolnhe.  I  no  steal,  I  no 
beg;  we  starve.  Bat  w'en  I  get  very  seeck,  I 
glad  I  was  kep'  good,  a  leetle  bit.  I  read  de 
blessed  words.    Den  you  come  talk  to  me 


mm 


52 


A   STAR   IN  A   PBISON. 


like  sister,  no  pride,  no  maldng  me  feel  like 
dog  beneat'  you.  I  feel  I  can  be  somebody 
affer  all,  and  hold  up  my  head." 

*'  At  least  you  will,"  my  poor  Agnes,  "  as 
soon  as  ^you  are  able  to  stand,"  si  led 
Dorothy.  "  Don't  forget  you  are  to  come  to 
me  to  be  my  very  own  maid  as  soon  as  you 
can  go  about,  which  will  not  be  long,  for 
Keith  says  you  are  doing  finely  now.  Wasn't 
It  fine  that  I  happened  to  find  you  on  that 
queer  lit|:le  house  -  hcxV.  Keith  calls  you 
•The  Lady  of  tho  Lake.'" 

Agnes  scarcely  heard  what  she  was  say- 
ing. She  was  gazing  Intently  into  Dorothy's 
face. 

"  If  I  were  wan  great  artiste,"  she  said, 
"do  you  know  w'at  I  do.  Mademoiselle?" 

"What?"  with  a  smile. 

"  Paint  wan  beautiful  picture,  tres 
grande.  It  would  be  de  Queen  of  Heaven, 
and  she  would  have  de  face  of  Mademoiselle 
Cameron!" 

Dorothy  laughed,  the  little,  rippling  laugh 
that  sounded  like  the  murmur  of  a  brook. 

"  Nonsense,  Agnes!  You  flatter  me!"  she 
said. 

The  sick  girl  was  drawing  something  out 
from  beneath  her  pillow.  "  I  was  try  draw 
you,  wan  day,"  she  said,  as  she  unfolded  a 
sheet  of  paper,  upon  which  a  head  was 
sketched.  It  was  roughly  done,  but  the  ex- 
pression was  almost  perfect.  It  was  Dor- 
othy's own  face. 

The  girl  exclaimed  in  pleased  surprise. 
"Why,  Agnes,  you  are  a  regular  genius! 
I  should  have  known  this  was  I,  any 
place." 

"You  like  it?"  asked  Agnes,  with  a  flush 
of  gratiflcatlon  on  her  thin  face.  Then  her 
dark  eyes  grew  wistful.  "  I  do  have  dreams 
of  beautiful  t'ings  I  want  to  make,"  she 
said.  "  Dey  float  about  me  all  de  time,  in 
de  air,  on  de  wall,  every  place.  If  I  could 
only  paint  dem  all!" 

Dorothy  was  gazing  at  her  in  amazement. 
"Why,  you  have  the  soul  of  an  artist!" 
she  exclaimed.    "  You   never   told   me   this 


before,  Agnes.  Haye  you  tried  to  sketch 
much?" 

The  girl  shook  her  head.  "  No,  so  very 
leetle,"  she  replied.  "You  see  I  have  not  had 
de  time  nor  de  money.  I  have  draw  on  wrap- 
ping-paper lots,  but  den  I  look  at  de  pictures 
in  de  gallery  and  in  de  church,  and  my  own 
look  so  poor,  so  foolish,  I  grow  in  despair 
and  do  no  more  for  long." 

Dorothy  was  still  looking  at  the  sketch  in 
her  hand,  when  the  rumble  of  a  carriage 
was  heard,  and  in  a  moment  Keith  came  in. 
She  flew  to  show  it  to  him.  He  took  it  up, 
and  an  expression  of  surprised  interest 
crossed  his  face. 

"Who  drew  this?"  he  asked  quickly. 

"  Agnes." 

He  looked  keenly  at  the  sick  girl.  "  How 
have  you  come  by  this?"  he  asked.  "Was 
either  of  your  parents  talented  in  this 
way?" 

"  My  moder  has  said  dat  our  fader  was 
wan  artist  very  excellent,"  she  explained, 
modestly. 

He  scrutinized  the  picture  again  closely. 

"  Indeed!  When  you  come  to  take  care  of 
Dorothy  here,"  he  said,  "we  must  see  that 
you  have  some  instruction." 

The  girl's  face  lighted  up,  fairly  beamed, 
with  delight.  "  Oh,  you  are  too  good,  too 
kind!"  she  exclaimed,  with  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"Your  father  is  dead,  is  he  not?"  asked 
the  pbysician. 

The  girl's  face  clouded.  "But  I  do  not 
know.  Monsieur,"  she  said  in  a  low  tone. 
"  W'en  Adolphe  was  a  baby,  he  leave  us  all. 
He  never  come  back  more." 

After  this,  Agnes  rapidly  improved.  By 
the  time  winter  had  set  in  she  was  comfort- 
ably ensconced  in  the  Cameron  mansion  as 
Dorothy's  maid,  and  found  that  she  could 
get  all  the  material  she  needed,  and  could 
also  secure  much  valuable  Instruction,  for 
which  she  paid  with  part  of  her  own  earn- 
ings. Keith  preferred  to  have  her  do  this 
for  her  own  sake.  He  did  not  believe  in  put- 
ting a  premium  on  idleness  by  indlscrimin- 


4L.-'- 


mmmfmrnmrr 


iiPffiini^^PiifPi!iip)lPP9PPiiii^^ 


A    STAR    IN  A   PRISON. 


53 


ate  giving,  and  though  he  did  not  fear  idle- 
ness in  the  case  of  Agnes,  he  thought  it 
better,  so  far  as  her  own  self-respect  was 
concerned,  to  let  her  earn  her  own  way  as 
yet. 

But  both  he  and  Dorothy  watched  the 
girl's  progress  with  interest,  often  marvel- 
ling at  the  great  artistic  talent  which  she 
displayed.  Adolphe,  meanwhile,  continued 
to  picli  up  jobs,  and  to  stay  on  in  the  little 
cottage,  getting  ready  his  own  meals  and 
proving  that  he  was  possessed  of  no  mean 
skill  in  domestic  matters.  He  was  very 
proud  of  Agnes'  success  in  her  sketching, 
and  insisted  upon  pinning  any  which  fell 
into  his  possession  upon  the  wall,  so  that  ere 
long  the  little  rooms  of  their  old  home  in 
Lower  Town  were  bedecked  with  Madonnas 
and  angels,  heads  and  wings,  in  all  stages 
of  development.  In  many  of  the  faces 
Dorothy's  features  appeared;  in  most  of  the 
others  the  features  were  those  of  a  sweet, 
sad  woman,  whom  Agnes  declared  she  often 
saw  before  her  in  her  dreams.  "  I  t'ink  it 
mus'  be  my  angel  moder,"  she  would  say, 
'*  watching  for  Adolphe  an'  me." 

."Are  the  features  hers?"  Dorothy  would 
ask. 

Agnes  would  nod  her  head  thoughtfully 
and  say,  "  I  t'ink  dey  are  a  leetle  like  de 
way  I  remember  her,  but  more  beautiful. 
Of  course  she  mus'  be  more  beautiful  now  in 
heaven." 


CHAPTER  XII. 

AN  ARTIST  IN  PRISON. 

ROM  that  night  of  the  new 
chaplain's  first  visit  to 
Wilbelm,  the  young  man's 
spiritual  life  was  a 
brighter,  more  glorious 
thing  than  ever  before; 
and  with  the  brigliter  spir- 
itual experience  came  a  more  happy  temporal 


one.  He  began  to  take  a  new  Interest  In 
everything  about  him.  His  fellow-prisoners. 
Instead  of  seeming  as  before  for  the  most 
part  repulsive  outcasts  of  earth,  became,  as 
God's  creatures,  tender,  diseased  plants, 
worthy  of  the  gentlest  care  and  considera- 
tion. 

He  longed  to  talk  to  them,  to  tell  them 
about  the  source  of  his  own  strange  happi- 
ness. But  that  was  impossible,  so  he  con- 
tented himself  instead  with  watching  his 
beloved  chaplain  going  about  among  them, 
winning  their  love  and  confidence,  and  lead- 
ing them  back  to  hope  and  manhood  with 
the  tender  touch  of  love. 

In  his  own  way,  too,  Wilhelm,  though  he 
seldom  dared  speak,  yet  found  opportunities 
of  helping  others.  Hard  work  was  develop- 
ing him  into  a  young  giant,  and  when  among 
those  weaker  than  himself  he  was  ever 
ready  to  talce  the  heaviest  end  of  a  lift. 
The  news  that  he  had  said  he  was  Innocent 
spread  about  among  the  men  in  some 
unaccountable  way.  "  I  believe  he  said  the 
truth  about  it,  too,"  had  muttered  Fisher- 
man Jack.  And  his  opinion  had  rapidly 
gained  footing  among  the  others.  Even  the 
vilest  criminal  respected  the  young  man  the 
more  because  of  it. 

And  now  tlie  report  that  he  was  "re- 
ligious "  had  been  circulated.  "  I  said  he 
was  a  good  one,  and  ho  is!"  was  the  daring 
Jack's  half-whispered  comment;  and  that  ob- 
servation, too,  had  spread  abroad.  These 
sullen,  impatient  men  could  scarcely  under- 
stand the  change  that  had  come  about  in 
Wilhelm.  They  felt  it  in  his  look,  in  his 
smile  and  in  his  manner,  and  their  hearts 
were  drawn  to  him,  one  and  all. 

An  especial  affinity  seemed  to  have  sprung 
up  between  him  and  the  Frenchman,  No. 
869,  who  was  growing  more  haggard  and 
weak  every  day.  Instinctively  each  felt  that 
the  other  was  more  than  ordinarily  inter- 
ested in  him.  The  Fror.climan  would  fix  lils 
hungry  eyes  upon  the  youtli's  frank  face, 
and  Wilhelm  would  siiiiif  back  at  him.  wi;!i 


54 


A   STAB   IN  A  PBISOK. 


I 
t 


that  smile  which  ever  seemed  to  spread  sun- 
shine about  it. 

How  many  times  each  longed  to  talk  to 
the  other  neither  could  tell,  biit  until  the 
snow  caihe  no  word  passed  the  lips  of  either 
save  the  murmured  "Thank  you'*  of  the 
Frenchman  when  Wilhelra  managed  to 
lighten  him  of  some  heavy  burden. 

When  the  winter  came,  however,  an  op- 
portunity for  somewhat  frequent  inter- 
change of  words  was  most  unexpectedly 
given  them.  It  was  found  necessary  to  do 
some  remodeling  to  one  of  the  chapels,  and 
the  task  of  decorating  it  was  put  into  the 
hands  of  a  few  of  the  prisoners.  Wilhelm's 
course  in  science  had  necessitated  a  study 
of  mechanical  drawing,  and  his  services 
were  now  brought  into  requisition.  He 
found  that  to  No.  809  had  been  allotted  the 
work  of  painting  the  pictures  and  the  orna- 
ments. 

"  You'd  better  have  a  talk  with  him  about 
it,"  said  one  of  the  officials.  "  We  can  trust 
you  two,  I  reckon." 

So  Wilhelm  had  at  last  an  opportunity  of 
hearing,  in  intelligible  conversation,  the 
voice  of  him  whom  he  had  watched  with  in- 
terest so  long.  True,  their  talk  was  always 
aboiTt  their  work,  and  a  guard  stood  ever 
near,  but  even  that  was  a  satisfaction.  Dur- 
ing the  winter  they  had  several  such 
watched  interviews  as  this,  and  yet  neither 
knew  the  name  of  the  other. 

One  morning  Wilhelm  came  into  the 
Catholic  chapel.  He  had  not  been  there  for 
a  long  time.  His  gaze  was  immediately 
riveted  on  two  pictures,  newly  painted.  One 
represented  the  Christ  in  the  Garden  of 
Gethsemane.  Wilhelm  paused  before  it. 
Time,  place,  everything  of  earth,  vanished  in 
his  contemplation  of  the  unutterable 
anguish,  mingled  with  love,  pictured  in  that 
wonderful  face.  How  long  he  had  stood 
there  he  knev/  not.  Then  his  eyes  fell  upon 
the  other,  a  large  painting,  filling  the  space 
above  the  altar  — the  Christ  ascending;  tri- 
umph, Joy,  that  same  unutterable  love,  fill- 


ing the  calm,  sweet  eyes  upturned  towards 
the  rejoicing  hosts  of  heaven.  This  won- 
drous expression  of  love  above  all  struck 
upon  Wilhelm  with  a  power  that  made  his 
pulses  throb. 

He  was  dimly  conscious  that  some  one  had 
come  in  and  was  adding  a  few  finishing 
touches  to  the  draperies  about  the  feet.  At 
last  he  looked  down  to  the  painter.  It  was 
No.  869!  Wilhelm  marvelled  that  a  shaven 
convict  could  form  the  conception  of  such  a 
face.  In  this  man's  heart  love  could  not  be 
dead.  Wilhelm  looked  at  him  with  a  sort 
of  pitying  awe  and  whispered: 

"  What  is  your  name?" 

The  melancholy,  sunken  eyes  turned  wist- 
fully upon  him.  The  low,  timid  voice  an- 
swered: 

"  Pierre  Adolphe  Belleau." 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

SOME  CONCLUSIONS  OP  WILHELM  AND 
KEITH  CAMERON. 

HILE,  as  we  have 
seen,  Wilhelm's  heart 
was  glowing  with  a 
new  fire,  in  spite  of 
occasional  fits  of  de- 
spondency and  lone- 
liness, his  body  and 
his  mind  were  also 
being  developed.  The  wielding  of  hammer 
and  mallet  was  making  him  a  physical 
giant,  for  the  figure  of  a  Hercules  was  al- 
ready there,  needing  only  the  training  of 
constant  exercise.  As  the  months  went  on 
the  great  muscles  began  to  stand  out  like 
iron  bands,  and  his  physique  became  the 
admiration  of  ail  the  prison  ofliclals. 

He  also  applied  himself  to  study.  He  ob- 
served his  fellow-prisoners  closely,  and  in 
this  way  learned  many  truths  In  regaM  to 
the  laws  that  govern  the  human  mind.    In 


r1 


i.^4.n  iAI,4Mi.UJ'*MJfX.iXA'l*%»*r*-' 


A  STAB   IX  A   PRISON, 


55 


the  evenings  he  fixed  his  attention,  with  that 
power  of  concentration  of  which  he  was 
master,  upon  the  books  which  be  got  from 
the  library,  or  which  the  chaplain  procured 
from  outside  sources  for  him.  As  far  as 
possible  he  went  on  with  his  old,  favorite 
branches  of  science  and  mathematics,  and 
many  an  abstruse  problem  was  untangled 
In  his  unwearying  brain. 

He  was. often  lonely,  often  impatient,  but 
never  now  wholly  despairing.  He  realized 
the  truth  that  those  who  trust  in  God  can 
never  be  "  utterly  cast  down."  In  Chaplain 
Hare  he  foimd  a  constant  friend  and  source 
of  Inspiration.  He  had  wondered  a  little 
that  no  mention  of  his  supposed  crime  had 
been  made  by  Mr.  Hare.  He  learned  that  the 
chaplain's  plan  was  ever  to  point  to  higher 
things,  rather  than  to  dwell  on  the  evil. 

Wilhelm  had  at  first  forborne  to  speak  of 
his  innocence  and  unjust  punishment,  fear- 
ing that  he  would  not  be  believed.  At  last, 
however,  he  did  so,  and  felt  that  Mr.  Hare 
had  confidence  in  his  story.  It  was  not 
within  the  power  of  the  chaplain  now  to  do 
anything  which  might  hasten  his  release, 
yet  the  fact  that  even  one  had  implicit  con- 
fidence in  his  honor  was  a  great  solace  to 
him.  As  far  as  possible  Wilhelm  avoided 
the  subject  entirely. 

He  and  Mr.  Hare  had,  however,  many 
talks  on  other  subjects.  Mr.  Hare  was  a 
constant  source  of  inspiration  to  him,  and 
many  hints  and  ideas  which  the  older  man 
threw  down,  Wilhelm  seized  and  probed  to 
the  very  bottom.  These,  in  the  young  man's 
mind,  gave  rise  to  other  trains  of  thought, 
so  that  his  brain  was  never  idle,  while  his 
heart  was  never  cold. 

And  while  In  this  way  Wilhelm  in  his 
prison  cell  was  forming  many  important 
conclusions,  another,  in  the  dear  old  capital, 
had  by  a  different  route  been  drawing  the 
same  inferences.  This  other  was  Dr.  Keith 
Cameron,  upon  whom  we  will  again  look, 
at  a  time  in  which  we  may  see  the  workings 
of  his  mind. 


One  Sunday  evening  the  doctor  set  out  to 
call  on  a  patient  in  the  West  End,  intending 
to  stop  on  the  way  back  in  time  for  service 
at  Christ  Church.  It  was  quite  late,  al- 
most dark,  when  he  reached  the  church.  He 
went  quickly  up  the  steps  and  paused  for  a 
moment  In  the  vestibule.  The  soft  chant- 
ing of  voices  reached  him  through  the 
closed  dcor.  He  opened  it  and  went  in. 
No  one  was  In  the  back  seat.  He  sat  down 
and  folded  his  arms. 

Softly  the  lights  shone  down  from  the 
carven  capitals,  lighting  up,  with  a  softened 
glow,  the  white  marble  pillars  in  the  nave, 
the  bowed  heads  of  the  people,  the  white 
robes  of  the  choir-boys,  and  the  golden  stars 
on  the  walls  of  the  chancel. 

Clear  rang  the  voice  of  the  curate,  deep 
rose  the  murmur  of  the  people.  "  And  grant, 
O  most  merciful  Father,  for  his  sake,  that 
we  may  hereafter  live  a  godly,  righteous 
and  sober  life.  To  the  glory  of  thy  holy 
name.    Amen." 

It  was  very  beautiful,  Keith  thought.  Bit 
by  bit,  he  went  over  the  petition. 

"  Father  —  merciful  Father."  Not  God 
of  justice,  God  of  wrath,  but  loving 
Father. 

"  For  his  sake."  He  was  God,  and  he  was 
man,  too. 

"Godly  life."  Ah,  yes!  What  is  a  godly  life? 
Keith's  mind  ran  back  to  his  old  studies  in 
philology— the  suflSx  "  lie,"  or  "  ly,"  mean- 
ing "like."  Godly,  then,  means  God-like. 
What  a  glorious  thing  it  would  be  to  live  a 
God-like  life!  And  this  was  the  life  God 
wanted  man  to  live.  For  this  end  was  he 
brought  into  the  world.  Who  is  God?  "God  is 
Love."  Then  a  God-like  life  must  be  a  life 
of  love.  What  is  the  most  striking  charac- 
teristic of  this  life  of  love?  Back,  back  to 
Jesus,  as  he  showed  himself  to  be  when  in 
the  body.  Jesus'  life  was  a  life  of  giving, 
from  beginning  to  end;  giving  of  himself. 
Of  all  lives  in  earth's  history,  his  is  the  only 
one  in  which  no  taint  of  selfishness  appears. 
Hence,  the  God-like  life  must  be  a  life  of 


56 


A   STAB   IN  A  FBI  SON. 


ff- 


8' '!  '  V 


giving.  Yet  tliis  giving  mus^t  be  voluntary, 
spontaneous,  Joyous,  free. 

"  To  the  glory  of  thy  holy  name." 

Now,  what  does  this  "glory"  mean?  God 
knows  not  selfishness.  He  desires  not  power 
for  his  own  sake,  neither  the  gloi'y  before 
which  the  world  stands  dazzled,  which  is  as 
dross  in  his  siglit.  What  then?  Is  not  the 
glory  of  human  character  unselfishness,  self- 
giving?  Must  this  not  also  be  the  glory  of 
divine  character? 

Self-giving  —  not  the  giving  up  of  one's 
Individuality,  but  the  spontaneous,  volun- 
tary offering  of  one's  self  for  others.  This, 
then.  Is  an  interpretation  worthy  of  associa- 
tion with  the  character  of  God.  This  is  the 
glory  of  God,  of  the  cross.  God  gives  him- 
self for  others.  He  would  desire  us  to  give 
ourselves  in  order  that  we  may  live  God-ly 
lives. 

•'  Thy  holy  name." 

What  is  the  meaning  of  this  word  "  holy  "? 
Something  high,  mighty,  too  far  off  for  the 
grasp  of  the  human  mind?  Ah,  no;  but 
something  sacred,  precious,  something  which 
one  can  clasp  to  one's  heart. 

So  Keith's  mind  ran  on.  He  had  fallen 
Into  a  dreamy,  half-listless  state,  so  far  as 
his  body  was  concerned.  Yet  it  seemed  as 
if  his  mind  had  risen  above  and  separate 
from  his  body,  and  was  passing  from 
thought  to  thought  with  unusual  activity. 

He  had  not  knelt.  His  head  was  thrown 
back  against  a  pillar,  and  his  pale,  clear-cut 
face  and  black  hair  rested  in  striking  relief 
against  the  whiteness  of  the  marble.  He 
did  not  realize  that  he  was  not  kneeling. 
The  thought  of  what  he  was  actually  doing 
never  entered  his  mind.  Yet  who  can  say 
that  the  man,  sitting  unnoticed  awaj  in  the 
background,  with  folded  arms  and  head 
erect,  was  the  least  sincere  of  the  worship- 
ers? Keith  Cameron  was  scarcely  conven- 
tional enough  tor  a  conventional  age. 
Sometimes  he  acted  differently  from  other 
men.    But  he  never  knew  it. 

The  service  had  outrun  him  during   his 


cogitations  on  the  "General  Confession." 
The  joyous  outburst  of  tlie  Cantate  Domino 
had  been  sung.  He  had  heard  the  voices  as 
it  were  afar  off.  The  sweet  sounds  of  the 
music  had  uplifted  and  blended  with  his 
thought,  though  he  knew  it  not.  When  he 
came  to  himself  the  curate  was  reading 
from  the  Gospel  of  St.  John. 

•'  Nevertheless,  I  tell  you  the  truth.  It  is 
expedient  for  you  that  I  go  away:  for  If  I 
go  not  away,  the  Comforter  will  not  come 
unto  you.  And  when  he  is  come,  he  will  re- 
prove the  world  of  sin,  and  of  righteousness, 
and  of  judgment:  of  sin,  because  they  be- 
lieve not  on  me;  of  righteousness,  because  I 
go  to  my  Father,  and  ye  see  me  no  more; 
of  judgment,  because  the  prince  of  this 
world  is  judged.  I  have  yet  many  things  to 
say  unto  you,  but  ye  cannot  bear  them  now. 
Howbeit,  when  he,  the  Spirit  of  truth,  Is 
come,  he  will  guide  you  into  all  truth." 

During  a  period  of  trial,  yet  fresh  In 
Keith's  mind,  these  words  had  been  a  source 
of  supreme  comfort  to  him.  He  had  not 
reached  the  age  of  twenty-eight  years  with- 
out having  suffered. 

His  mind  again  wandered  off,  aftd  paused 
in  reflection  upon  those  who  look  anxiously 
for  the  actual,  personal  appearing  of  Christ 
before  mortal  eyes.  It  did  not  seem  to  him 
that  he  cared  to  wait  for  this.  Had  not  the 
Comforter  already  come?  Was  he  not  al- 
ready upon  earth,  the  Holy  Spirit,  even 
Christ?  Some  chose  to  puzzle  themselves 
about  the  mystery  of  the  Trinity.  For  Keith 
\t  was  enough  to  know  that  each  of  the 
nysterious  three  is  God.  It  was  immaterial 
to  bira  whether  he  thought  of  them  as  Jesus, 
th((  Spirit,  or  as  God,  inasmuch  as  the  same 
mind  is  in  one  and  all,  in  inseparable  union. 

Sometimes  he  had  been  tempted  to  jthink, 
"  If  only  Jesus  had  not  left  the  earth!" 
Then  the  words  had  come,  "  If  I  go  not 
away,  the  Comforter  will  not  come  to  you," 
and  he  thought  how  practical,  how  scientific 
even,  God  is  after  all.  Had  Jesus  not  come, 
we  could  not  have  really  known  God  or  his 


A   STAB   IN  A  PRISON, 


57 


love.  Had  Jesns  remained  In  the  body,  but 
few  of  eai'th's  millions  could' ever  have  seen 
him. 

But,  since  the  Comforter  had  come,  every 
one  —  he,  Keith  —  could  have  Jesus  always 
with  him,  in  every  place,  at  every  time. 
True,  he  did  look  forward  to  a  gloriously 
vivid  realization  of  his  presence  at  some 
time  and  in  some  mysterious  way  in  the 
future.  Yet  he  was  contented  for  the  pres- 
ent to  know  that  Jesus  is  really  among 
men,  and  more  truly  among  all  men  than 
when  his  poor,  weary  feet  trod  the  sands  of 
Palestine.    For  is  not  God  omnipresent? 

"  He  will  reprove  the  world  of  sin."  Ah, 
yes,  is  not  this  one  of  Jesus'  divine  missions, 
—to  separate  from  sin,  to  burn  out  the  chaff 
from  the  wheat,  to  keep  the  good,  casting 
out  the  evil  of  men's  hearts? 

"  Ye  see  me  no  more."  With  mortal  eyes, 
no;  with  spiritual  eyes,  yes,  dear  Lord. 

"  I  have  many  things  to  say  unto  you,  but 
ye  cannot  bear  them  now."  How  tender 
and  considerate  is  Jesus!  A  little  at  a 
time,  as  much  as  they  can  assimilate,  do 
the  disciples  receive.  What  comfort  these 
words  bring  to  those  who  are  Impatient 
to  know  all  of  God  at  once!  Character 
must  grow,  even  as  grow  the  plants,  taking 
in  what  is  needful  to  the  perfect  life, 
rejecting  what  is  unnecessary  or  harmful. 
Jesus  says,  "When  the  Spirit  of  Truth  is 
come,  he  will  guide  you  Into  all  truth;"  not, 
he  will  open  unto  you  all  truth.  He  will 
guide  you.  You  must  do  the  walking,  the 
choosing  to  walk,  else  your  love  will  not  be 
real.  Love  can  never  be  forced,  and  only 
love  can  form  the  pathway  to  God,  who  Is 
love. 

Keith's  mind  was  off  again,  and  the  ser- 
vice had  once  more  got  ahead  of  him. 
What  was  the  matter  with  him  this  even- 
ing? He  sat  up,  determined  to  follow  the 
order  more  closely.  The  choir  was  singing 
the  sweet  **  Benedic  Animea  Mea." 

"Who  saveth  thy  life  from  destruction 
and  crowneth  thee  with  mercy  and  loving 


kindness.  .  .  .  Oh,  speak  good  of  the 
Lord,  all  ye  works  of  his,  in  all  places  of  his 
dominion:  praise  thou  the  Lord,  O  my  soul." 

"  Speak  good  of  the  Lord."  Yes,  all  nature 
was  doing  this,  everything  going  on  beauti- 
fully, harmoniously.  •  What  was  man,  the 
crowning  work  of  the  Lord,  doing?  Was  he 
speaking  good  of  the  Lord?  Keith  was  In- 
clined to  look  leniently  upon  men  and 
women,  yet  he  was  obliged  to  face  a  bitter 
question  here. 

His  eye  wandered  on  up  the  church,  be- 
tween the  rows  of  white  pillars,  over  the 
silks,  the  laces,  the  soft  plumes  of  the  ladies, 
over  the  white  and  bared  heads  of  men 
grown  old  in  the  church;  on  to  the  altar  with 
its  "  Holy,  Holy,  Holy,"  symbol  of  the  pres- 
ence of  the  God  whom  all  these  people 
reverently  acknowledged. 

There  were  many  beautiful  Chi'istlans  in 
this  church,  people  whose  lives  were  a  con- 
stant revelation  of  the  Bible  to  the  outside 
world.  Keith  wished  the  number  of  them 
had  been  greater.  Alas,  was  it  not  the  case 
in  every  church  of  the  land,  that  people 
were  "  speaking  good  "  but  too  feebly  of  the 
Lord?  When,  oh,  when  would  the  church 
fully  awaken,  and  its  people  l)ecome  mirrors 
of  Jesus  unto  all  men!  By  the  lives  of  pro- 
fessing Christians  only.  Is  the  Lord  known 
to  the  world. 

Then,  practical  as  ever,  Keith  began  to 
think,  or  rather  to  collect  bis  former  con- 
clusions, not  only  on  this  principle,  but  on 
the  way  in  which  it  may  be  attained  and 
disseminated.  In  what  way  may  Christians 
reflect  Christ? 

First,  as  a  condition,  they  must  be  with 
him  constantly.  No  one  can  help  being  like 
those  with  whom  he  constantly  associates. 
Hence,  in  living  with  Christ,  we  grow  like 
Christ,  and  the  world,  in  seeing  us,  may  take 
knowledge  of  him.  But  the  companionship 
must  be  constant. 

Again,  what  is  the  only  free— the  only  real 
—condition  of  this  companionship?  Is  it  not 
love?   By  loving  Jesus  we  choose  to  be  wilh 


n 


T 


58 


A   STAB   IN  A   PRISON, 


him;  the  more  we  love  him,  the  more  we 
become  like  him  in  our  nature. 

Then  what  is  the  evidence  of  loving?  Is 
it  not  giving  —  giving  of  self —  for  another? 
Why  does  the  mother  work  for  her  children, 
thus  giving  of  herself  for  them?  Because 
of  her  love.  It  is  as  natural  to  give  as  it  is 
to  breathe,  when  one  loves  fully. 

What  is  love?  "  God  is  love."  What  is  the 
greatest  commandment  of  God?  "Thou 
Shalt  love  the  Lord  thy  God  with  all  thy 
heart,  and  with  all  thy  mind,  and  with  all 
thy  strength:  this  is  the  first  commandment. 
And  the  second  is  like,  namely  this,  Thou 
Shalt  love  thy  neighbor  as  thyself." 

Can  this  commandment  be  burdensome? 
A  free  soul  in  a  free  country  wants  no 
shackles.  Joyously,  triumphantly  came  the 
answer.  No,  a  thousand  times,  no!  Love 
knows  no  burden.  Love  takes  us  out  of  our 
own  narrow  selves.  Love  leads  us  to  make 
the  best  of  ourselves  for  those  loved.  It  is 
only  when  I  am  truly  unselfish  that  I  am 
truly  free.  It  is  only  as  I  forget  myself  for 
the  sake  of  others,  and  in  doing  and  caring 
for  them,  that  I  rise  above  earth's  sordid 
things.  It  is  only  as  I  pour  myself  out  in 
thinking  of  others  that  I  become  like  God. 
As  long  as  I  think  and  work  only  for  my 
own  ends,  my  own  advancement,  regardless 
of  what  my  life  can  do  for  the  world,  ready 
to  trample  on  others  that  I  may  rise,  I  am 
living  the  life  a  devil  might  live  in  the  per- 
fect following  of  his  evil  nature. 

Keith  suddenly  recollected  his  straying 
faculties  again.  Ha!  His  mind  had  been 
playing  him  strange  tricks  this  evening. 
The  sermon  was  over.  He  had  not  heard  a 
word  of  It.  He  had  merely  had  a  vague 
consciousness  that  some  one  was  talking. 
He  was  sorry  now  for  this,  because  the 
bishop's  sermons  usually  contained  many 
beautiful  and  helpful  thoughts.  However, 
it  was  too  late  now  to  listen.  The  last  hymn 
was  being  sung.  Two  by  two  the  little 
choir-boys  were  marching  slowly  down, 
singing    like    angels,    the    light    streaming 


upon  their  white  surplices  and  upon 
their  sweet  faces.  On  they  passed,  with  the 
aged  rector  and  his  curate  last  of  all. 
Keith  watched  them  idly  as  they  passed 
out.  the  sweet  refrain  of  the  parting  hymn 
floating  back  faintly  from  beyond  the  sac- 
risty. Then  he  bowed  his  head.  There  was 
silence  in  the  church.  How  many  souls  were 
in  communion  with  the  Divine?  And  from 
afar  off  the  voices  of  the  choir  came  like  a 
benediction,  or  an  echo  from  heaven,  in  a 
long  "Amen!" 

Keith  arose  and  stood  In  the  entrance. 
Many  people  bowed  to  him  as  they  went  out, 
but  before  one  only  did  he  incline  his  head 
with  something  of  the  reverence  one  feels 
for  a  being  of  a  higher  order.  Octavla 
Edgar  swept  by  with  her  patrician  oir.  A 
swift  glance  of  recognition  was  all  he  re- 
ceived, but  Keith  stood  with  his  head  bared 
a  moment  longer  than  usual.  Yet  his  soul 
bowed,  not  before  Octavla  Edgar  as  she 
was,  but  as  she  might  be.  He  recognized 
the  immense  possibilities  in  her. 

Some  called  her  proud.  Perhaps  she  was 
so.  She  was  certainly  vegal.  The  poise  of 
her  head,  her  carriage,  would  have  done 
credit  to  a  queen.  Her  hair  was  brown, 
shimmering  with  golden  threads.  Her  eyes 
were  blue  and  thoughtful,  her  mouth  and 
chin  decided.  She  looked  like  a  woman  who 
had  thought  much,  if,  perhaps,  on  mistaken 
lines.  On  the  whole  she  had  a  very  beauti- 
ful and  rather  noble  face. 

This  was  the  girl  whom  Dorothy  had  once 
mentioned  to  Keith  as  feeling  "  morbid  "  at 
the  sight  of  suffering.  She  was  an  intimate 
friend  of  the  family,  and  an  especial  fav- 
orite with  Lady  Cameron.  She  was  bright, 
witty  and  educated.  People  had  marked  her 
out  as  the  future  bride  of  Dr.  Keith,  and, 
indeed,  Keith  had  sometimes  thought  how 
lovable  she  might  be  were  she  a  little  more 
impressionable,  a  little  less  absorbed  in  her 
own  circle  of  society,  her  own  aims  for  gain- 
ing merely  selfish  information. 

He  did  not  think  she  was  truly  happy. 


Sometlrnes  he  tried  to  Introduce,  In  a 
natural  manner,  a  few  words  which  might 
help  to  brlnr,  her  to  a  Christian  life.  She 
Invariably  either  "laughed  him  off,"  or  else 
discoursed  calmly,  but  without  feeling,  upon 
the  whys  and  wherefores  of  the  case.  She 
seemed  to  understand  with  her  head,  but 
her  heart  appeared  dead  to  all  such  things. 

Keith  had  hoped  lately  that  by  arousing 
her  sympathies  for  the  sulTerlng  ones  of  the 
city,  he  might  draw  her  out  of  herself,  away 
from  her  self-satisfied  clique  of  associates, 
and  reveal  to  her  her  own  heart  and  the 
need  of  a  more  useful  and  noble  life. 

To-night  he  walked  with  her  to  her  car- 
riage. 

"  Miss  Edgar,"  he  said,  "  to-morrow  I  set 
sail  for  Europe.  It  is  an  unexpected  call  on 
business,  but  I  may  stay  two  or  three  years 
to  study  in  the  German  schools  while  I  am 
there." 

"Yes?"  "^ctavla  suddenly  realized  that  It 
would  be  somewhat  lonely  without  this 
calm,  strong  doctor,  who  sometimes  ven- 
tured to  tell  her  what  he  thought  of  her,  in 
a  way  to  which  she  was  not  accustomed. 

"  Will  you  do  me  a  favor,  Miss  Edgar?" 

"  Certainly." 

He  hesitated  a  moment.  "If  you  think 
well  of  it,  perhaps  you  will  occasionally 
accompany  my  sister  to  see  some  of  our 
poor  In  the  flats.  Dorothy  sometimes  finds 
It  very  hard  to  get  any  one  to  go  with  her." 

"  Certainly,  I  shall  be  happy,"  murmured 
Octavia.  In  truth  she  was  a  little  disap- 
pointed that  this  was  all.  "  I  wish  you  a 
pleasant  voyage." 

He  bowed,  said  good-by  and  handed  her 
Into  the  seat  beside  her,  mother.  Not  "a 
word  more.  She  sank  back,  half  vexed,  as 
the  carriage  rolled  away;  and  Keith  went 
home,  a  little  lonely,  a  little  In  wonder  as 
to  the  success  of  his  parting  shot. 


A   STAB    IN  A   PRISON. 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

DOROTHY  AND  OCTAVIA. 


59 


EITH  was  gone,  and 
little  brown-haired 
Dorothy  sat  In  the 
depths  of  a  great 
arm  -  chair,  alter- 
nately rubbing  her 
eyes,  and  caressing 
a  beautiful  Persian 
cat  that  was  purr- 
ing contentedly  on 
her  knee.  Agnes  en- 
tered to  announce  a  caller,  Miss  Octavia 
Edgar. 

Dorothy  sprang  up  exclaiming,  '■  On, 
Octavia,  Is  It?  Show  her  right  In  here, 
Agnes."  And  a  moment  later  the  queenly 
Octavia  entered,  faultlessly  attired.  Her 
cheeks  were  colored  by  the  cool  morning 
breeze,  and  her  rich  coils  of  hair  were  ar- 
ranged most  becomingly  about  her  finely 
formed  head. 

Dorothy  caught  both  of  Octavla's  hands  in 
hers. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  called,  Octavia!"  she 
said.  "  I  have  been  very  lonely  all  morn- 
ing;" and  she  nestled  her  pink  and  white 
face  on  the  brown  velvet  shoulder. 

"  I  thought  you  would  be  feeling  so,  dear," 
returned  Octavia,  looking  down  Into  the 
great,  brown  eyes.  "  I  thought  I  might  be 
able  to  cheer  you  up.  But  see,  Dorothy," 
and  she  placed  her  slender,  gloved  hand 
under  the  girl's  chin,  raising  the  face  to 
hers;  "  I  have  also  another  object  in  coming. 
Behold,  Octavia  hath  actually  a  piece  of 
business  on  hand!  Don't  you  feel  a  quiver 
of  dispatch  in  the  air?" 

She  spoke  jestingly,  but  there  was  a  ring 
of  irony  In  the  tone.  Octavia  evidently  was 
not  wholly  satisfied  with  her  pleasure-seek- 
ing life,  for  even  her  studies  were  carried 
on  merely  for  t'^e  sake  of  the  pleasure  which 
they  afforded  her. 


'  mHWM  I  itmumfMiM 


liim.  -'ii'»'|fy;;{j!;i'i;{'H'.'U!l--  ;,'";i,'t".'i;'^'-»iy'- '■"■/?   ''T?Tff'^''T'"^'T';rTii<*rrSilff! 


60 


A   STAB   IN  A   PRISON. 


_4- 


"Well,  what  wonder  hath  happened!" 
smiled  Dorothy. 

Octavla  sat  down  and  proceeded  to  draw 
off  her  gloves.  "  Dorothy,"  she  said,  after 
a  long  pause,  "  a  few  evenings  ago  your 
brother  "and  I  had  a  long  talk.  At  the  end 
of  It  he  said,  '  Miss  Edgar,  I  have  come  to 
the.  conclusion  that  the  truest  Christian 
iS  the  one  who  lives  least  for  himself;  that 
the  worst  heathen  Is  he  who  lives  most  for 
himself.'  " 

She  paused  again  and  tapped  her  foot 
on  the  carpet.  » 

"  It  was  just  like  Keith  to  say  that,"  re- 
turned Dorothy.    "What  then?" 

Octavla  suddenly  sat  up  very  straight  and 
turned  her  beautiful  eyes  upon  the  girl. 
"  Well,"  she  said,  briskly,  "  he  knows  very 
well  that  I  am  of  no  use  to  any  one  in 
this  world  except  myself,  and  I  doubt  if  I 
count  for  much  even  for  myself,"  —  with  a 
touch  of  bitterness.  "  Now,  do  you  think  he 
could  have  told  me  In  plainer  words  how 
he  despises  me?" 

"  But,  Octavia  dear,"  urged  Dorothy,  "  I 
am  quite  sure  Keith  flidn't  think  of  you  at 
all  when  he  said  that.  He  knows  how  good 
and  kind  you  are  at  home,  and  —  and,  be- 
sides, Keith  is  too, much  of  a  gentleman  to 
say  such  a  thing  to  you  in  that  way,  if 
he  did  believe  it.  Keith's  whole  life  is 
based  on  ideas  such  as  these,  dear,  and  he 
just  can't  help  telling  his  thoughts  some- 
times." 

"At  any  rate,  the  point  came  to  me  very 
forcibly,"  returned  Octavia,  with  the.  ghost 
of  a  smile.  "  I  must  be  very  vulnerable  in 
that  respect." 

"But,"  said  Dorothy,  "what  has  all  this 
to  do  with  the  business  you  have  on  hand, 
Octavia?" 

"I'm  coming  to  it.  My  story  is  not  fin- 
ished yet.  Last  Sunday  evening  he  asked 
me,  as  a  favor,  if  I  would  accompany  you 
on  some  of  your  rounds." 

Dorothy  sat  down  at  the  older  girl's  feet, 
and  gave  the  jewelled  hand  a  squeeze. 


"Oh!"  she  said.  In  an  enlightened  tone; 
"so  you  want  to  come  with  me  soon?" 

"  Merely  for  the  sake  of  ease  of  con- 
science, dear,"  replied  Octavia.  "  I  gave 
him  my  promise  to  do  so.  Besides,  his  words 
have  been  troubling  me  considerably.  If  I 
have  been  living  in  heathendom,  I  want  to 
get  out  of  it.  You  know  Luther's  deflultiou 
>f  repentance  is,  '  Do  so  no  more'." 

Dorothy  sat  very  still  for  a  few  minutes. 
"  Octavla,"  she  said  at  last,  "  do  you  think 
this  spirit  is  the  right  one  to  take  with  you 
Into  the  homes  of  the  poor?" 

The  question  was  a  searching  one.  These 
girls  were  accustomed  to  talk  to  each  other 
very  plainly.  The  closeness  of  their  friend- 
ship gave  them  this  privilege,  and  the  one 
never  misundei-stood  the  other.  Octavia 
looked  up  quickly. 

"  You  mean,"  she  said  slowly,  "  that  my 
very  selfishness  is  the  motive  for  my  going 
there?    Well,  perhaps  you  are  right." 

"You  have  put  it  very  harshly,"  replied 
Dorothy.  "  I  simply  mean  that  we  should  go 
among  these  people  because  we  care  for 
them,  not  for  any  satisfaction  we  may  de- 
rive from  it  ourselves." 

"  Which  mounts  to  the  same  thing,"  said 
Octavia,  with  a  shadowy  smile.  "  But. 
Dorothy,  how  am  I  going  to  learn  to  care  for 
them  if  I  never  go  to  see  them?" 

"  That  is  so,"  admitted  Dorotliy.  "  I'll  be 
delighted  to  have  you  go  With  me." 

"  Well,  then,"  returned  Octavia,  "  my  car- 
riage is  waiting  here.  Come,  get  on  your 
hat,  and  take  me  off  at  once,  or  the  fever 
may  go  away  from  me.  You  will  have  to 
instruct  me  as  to  what  has  to  be  done, 
Dorothy.  The  breathing  of  foul  airs  and 
smelling  of  filthy  vapors  come  as  a  matter 
of  course;  but  must  one  coddle  the  dirty 
children,  and  all  the  rest  of  it?" 

She  spoke  with  a  light,  half-bitter  air  that 
distressed  Dorothy,  whose  every  emotion 
showed  in  her  face.  "  You  must  not  act  in 
any  way  differently  from  the  way  In  which 
you  feel  like  acting,"  she  said,  slowly. 


IP^lfWifPiWPf 


i,JWrWWWl:W^ 


mppiiPipHiq 


-.      A   STAB   IN  A   FBI  SON. 


61 


Octavla,  seized  with  remorse,  leaned  siid- 
dealy  forward  and  caught  the  sweet  face 
between  her  hands. 

"Forgive  me,  little  Dolly!"  she  said.  "I 
am  not  so  cruel  as  T  seem." 

Dorothy's  brow  cleared.  "  I  know  that, 
Octavla  dear,"  she  said,  "  but  please  don't 
speak  so." 

**  I  win  speak  with  the  greatest  respect 
henceforth,"  rejoined  Octavla,  kissing  her 
again  as  she  arose  to  put  on  her  hat. 

After  they  had  entered  the  carriage,  which 
was  rapidly  rolling  towards  the  businoss 
part  of  the  city,  Octavla  asked,  "  What  are 
we  going  to  take  with  us,  Dorothy?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

"  Why,  provisions,  of  course.  Don't  you 
carry  things  everywhere  you  go?'' 

Dorothy  smiled.  "  Why,  no,  not  always, 
Octavla,"  she  replied.  "  They  don't  want 
things,  so  much  as  (sympathy  and  encourage- 
ment in  a  great  many  cases.  Many  of  these 
people  would  be  deeply  offended  if  you  went 
in  bluntly  with  a  tilled  basket.  Others  would 
take  all  you  could  give  them,  and  look  for 
more,  without  stirring  a  flnper  to  earn  any- 
thing for  themselves.  Ot  course  some 
really  need  to  have  food  or  fuel  or  clothes 
brought  in  at  once.  We  have  to  consider  all 
the  circumstances  of  every  case  before  act- 
ing In  this  way." 

"  So  we'll  not  take  any  oatmeal  and  pota- 
toes to-day,  then?" 

Dorothy  reflected  for  a  moment.  "  There's 
John  Howard's  family."  she  said;  "  he  is 
sick.  We  might  venture  to  take  something 
there,  and  to  Granny  Holmes." 

"  Very  well,"  returned  Octavla.  "  What 
next  do  you  do?    Read  the  Bible?" 

Dorothy's  face  grew  very  grave.  "  Some- 
times," she  said,  "  when  heart  touches  lieart 
Immediately.  But  often  one  simply  cannot 
broach  this  subject  before  becoming  really 
acquainted  with  the  people,  it  is  toe  sacred, 
too  dear,  to  be  roughly  intruded  before  the 
way  is  clear.  And,  Octavla  dear,  I  don't 
think    our    Bible  -  reading    has    very    much 


efTect  upon  these  poor  creatures  until  the 
bond  of  fi.endship  an<l  contldence  has  been 
established  between  them  and  us." 

'•  So  your  tactics  are  all  taken  at  first  with 
a  view  to  making  friends  with  the  people?" 

Dorothy  shook  her  head.  **  We  don't  use 
any  tactics  at  all,"  she  replied.  "  We  Just 
try  to  let  the  peoi)le  understand  that  we  care 
for  them  and  are  anxious  to  help  them  in  the 
best  way  possible.  After  that  the  way  Is 
easier." 

Her  face  was  glowing  with  enthusiasm, 
and  Octavla  looked  at  her  rather  curiously. 

"  How  did  you  get  so  much  wisdom,  you 
fairy?"  she  Qsked. 

"  Why,  from  Keith,"  replied  Dorothy,  with 
surprise. 

Octavla  smi'ed.  For  a  time  she  did  not 
speak.  She  was  stroking  Dorothy's  hand 
lovingly,  and  thinking  that  this  girl,  with 
her  sweet  enthusiasm,  her  hopefulness,  and 
her  alms  for  making  the  littie  world  about 
her  better  so  far  as  she  could,  had  found  a 
happier  life  than  she  —  she,  the  beautiful 
Octavla,  admired,  envied  by  nearly  every 
young  woman  in  society  circles.  This  morn- 
ing she  almost  felt  as  if  she  would  give  half 
of  her  privileges  for  the  greater  privilege  of 
being  able  to  live  an  unselfish  life.  She  was 
an  only  child  and  an  heiress,  petted  and  a 
little  spoiled  and  willful.  As  she  thought  of 
her  home,  she  felt  that  there  might  be  some 
room  there  for  unselfishness  on  her  part. 
Yet  she  had  an  idea  that  she  could  not  really 
be  a  heart-helper,  for  there  was  something 
lacking  in  her  own  heart. 

This  morning  she  felt  a  little  weary  of  her 
ceaseless  round  of  pleasure,  of  parties  and 
operas  and  yachting  trips,  and  although  she 
shrank  from  the  ordeal,  she  almost  hoped 
that  this  visit  to  scenes  of  misery  such  as 
she  knew  nothing  of,  might  awaken  a  germ 
of  real  unselfishness  sleeping  in  her  heart. 

The  purchases  were  made  and  the  carriage 
rolled  on  through  the  narrow  streets  of  the 
poor  district.  Even,  the  prancing  horses 
seemed  to  find  themselves  out  of  their  ele- 


62 


A   STAB   IN  A   PRISON. 


mont  and  lifted  their  fine  feet  daintily  over 
the  rough,  broken  road.  The  coachman,  In 
hlB  tall  silk  hat,  Hat  haughtily  erect,  wonder- 
ing what  the  world  was  coming  to. 

Then  the  calling  began.  As  the  two  glrla 
walked  through  dirty  halls  and  up  dusty 
stairways  Jnto  close,  badly- ventilated  rooms, 
filled  with  ragged  children  and  haggard, 
often  squalid  women,  they  were  touched 
with  very  different  emotions.  Dorothy's 
busy  brain  was  constantly  revolving  plans 
for  bringing  about  a  better  state  of  affairs, 
for  Inculcating  Ideas  of  cleanliness,  for  ob- 
taining work  for  those  In  bitter  need  of  It. 
In  fact,  as  It  was,  she  haunted  the  agencies 
of  Industry  with  unflagging  persistence. 

But  Octavla's  sensitive  nerves  suffered  at 
the  sights  she  witnessed,  and  her  estlietlc 
sensibilities  received  but  one  shock  after 
another.  She  showed  her  disgust  in  her 
face  and  In  her  actions,  much  as  she  tried 
to  conceal  it.  She  could  not  refrain  from 
lifting  her  silken  skirts  about  her  a  dainty 
horror  and.  keeping  her  fllmy  lace  handker- 
chief at  her  nose.  In  a  way  she  pitied  these 
people,  but  she  blamed  them  far  more  even 
for  their  poverty.  She  did  not  see  how 
any  one  could  really  care  for  them,  althougli 
she  scarcely  had  an  opportunity  of  judging 
them,  for  they  were  half  afraid  of  her  and 
acted  in  a  strained,  unnatural  way.  She  was 
heartily  glad  when  she  was  once  more  re- 
clining on  the  luxurious  cushions  of  her  car- 
riage and  on  the  way  home. 

At  last  she  said,  "  It's  no  use,  Dorothy;  I 
can't  go  there  again.  I  almost  hate  those 
creatures.  I  know  I  despise  them.  Take  my 
purse,  dear,  but  leave  me." 

"  Perhaps  you  have  been  intended  to  be 
useful  in  some  other  way,  to  some  other 
class  of  people,  Octavia,"  returned  Dorothy, 
gently.  "  Yet,"  she  pleaded,  "  you  don't 
know  these  people;  there  Is  really  more 
worthiness  in  them  than  you  imagine." 

Octavia  looked  at  her  seriously.  "  Do  you 
really  care  for  them,  Dorothy?" 

Dorothy's  face  lighted  up  with  an  expres- 


sion that  answered  the  question  for  her.  "  I 
think  I  do,"  she  answered  modestly,  "  be- 
cause I  want  to  help  them  more  than  any- 
thing else  in  this  world." 

She  sat  quietly  thinking  for  a  few  minutes, 
then  she  said,  "  Jesus  loves  them,  you  know. 
If  lie  were  here  now  in  the  body  again,  he 
would  not  shrink  from  them.  And  why 
should  we?" 

Octavia  turned  to  her.  "  Dorothy,"  she 
asked,  "  is  it  your  love  for  these  people,  or 
your  love  for  .Tesus,  which  makes  you  take 
such  pleasure  in  this  work?" 

Dorothy  looked  up  in  surprise.  *'  Why," 
she  replied,  "  of  course  my  love  for  him 
makes  me  care  more  for  them.  You  see, 
when  Keith  loves  people  I  cannot  help  car- 
ing for  them  too;  and  in  the  same  way, 
when  I  know  Jesus  loves  people,  I  cannot 
help  thinking  more  of  them." 

Octavia  did  not  answer,  and  Dorothy  con- 
tinued, "  Yet  my  love  seems  so  feeble,  when 
I  think  of  that  of  others.  Love  for  Jesus 
and  for  humanity  has  led  people  to  go 
through  a  thousand  times  worse  scenes 
than  these,  Octavia.  You  know  it  has  in- 
spired many  to  go  out  and  live  even  among 
lepers,  at  the  risk  of  contracting  the  terrible 
disc;  >  themselves.  While  there  I  am  sure 
they  must  often  think  of  Jesus  as  he  walked 
about  among  the  hills  of  Palestine,  touching 
just  such  poor,  blighted  ones.  Octavia, 
what  a  sight  his  face  must  have  been  as  he 
did  so!  How  full  of  divine  love,  divine  com- 
passion!" 

Octavia  could  scarcely  understand  the 
depths  in  Dorothy's  voice.  She  closed  her 
eyes  and  wondered  if  she  should  ever  learn 
to  feel  so  about  these  things,  and  ere  she 
opened  them  again  the  Cameron  home  had 
been  reached,  and  it  was  time  for  Dorothy 
to  get  Out. 

Dorothy  wrote  a  short  account  of  this  trip 
to  Keith.  She  carefully  avoided  any  refer- 
ence to  Octavla's  actions,  simply  saying: 

"  Octavia  says  she  cannot  go  again,  Keith. 
She  does  not  like  such  work  at  all.    I  do 


w 


a?»*Hii«Wi*<B*«M».i< 


A   STAR   IN  A   PRISON. 


63 


wish  she  were  really  a  Chrlstlnn.  Don't 
you  think  It  would  chnnKe  her  ftn  Hug 
towards  ahnoHt  ovcty thing?" 

Keith  wrote  bncU:  '*  We  will  indeed  hope 
that  Octavla  may  yet  be  truly  a  Chrlstinn. 
But  you  must  not  forget  tlint  there  are  dif- 
ferent kinds  of  Christians.  Dorothy.  Oetavia 
may  never  be  fitte<l  for  the  work  which 
seems  to  suit  you  so  well,  little  sister,  yet 
she  may  some  day  do  as  glorious  a  work  In 
her  own  home,  in  her  own  circle  of  society. 
You  know  the  educated,  non-Christian  rich 
are  often  harder  to  reach  than  the  poor,  and 
Octavia's  flue  personality  should  give  her 
great  power  there.  As  for  yourself,  little 
sister,  take  care  of  my  people  while  I  am 
away,  and  never  despair.  You  may  meet 
some  discouraging  characters,  Dorothy,  but 
remember  we  cannot  call  any  one  with  a  soul 
utterly  unclean.  There  is  something,  how- 
ever feeble,  in  every  man's  soul  which  Is 
beautiful.  The  best  thing  we  can  do  with 
these  poor  people  is  to  set  this  something 
going  In  the  right  direction;  and  the  very 
best  and  highest  direction  is  towards  God." 

And  Dorothy  kissed  the  letter  and  carried 
It  about  In  her  pocket  for  several  days. 
During  this  time  she  was  seriously  consider- 
ing the  desirability  of  becoming  a  Sister  of 
the  Church.  She  desired  to  give  all  her  time 
to  her  beloved  work,  and  deemed  this  way 
the  easiest  method  of  attaining  her  object. 
At  last  she  determined  to  broach  the  subject 
to  her  mother. 

Lady  Cameron  was  sitting  In  her  own  pri- 
vate chamber  writing  a  letter,  when  Dorothy 
went  to  seek  her.  It  was  a  pretty  picture. 
The  room  was  furnished  in  pearl-gray  and 
old  rose,  and  was  one  of  the  daintiest  In  the 
house.  Lady  Cameron,  too,  looked  very 
stately,  like  a  tall,  white  lily.  In  her  morn-. 
Ing  -  gown  of  white,  with  Its  golden  gir- 
dle. Dorothy  sat  down  on  a  footstool  at 
her  mother's  feet  —  her  favorite  position 
with  those  she  loved  best  —  and  Lady  Cam- 
eron's hand  dropped  lightly  upon  her  soft 
hair. 


"  Well,  daughter."  she  said,  looking  Into 
the  anxious  face,  *'  what  is  the  trouble?" 

"  Mother,"  returned  Dorothy,  In  her  busi- 
ness-like way,  '*  I  want,  very,  very  much, 
to  do  something,  and  I  am  afraid  you  will 
not  approve  of  It." 

Lady  Cameron  smiled.  "Oh,  is  that  It? 
Well?" 

Still  Dorothy  hesitated.  She  knew  that 
Lady  Cameron  had  a  will  strong  as  steel. 
At  last,  making  a  brave  effort,  she  began: 

"  I  should  like  very  much  to  become  a 
Sister  of  the  Church.  You  know  all  the  Sis- 
ters are  very  good,  lovely  women,  and  —  and 
highly  respected  by  all  the  church  people." 

The  calm,  half  -  amused  expression  of 
Lady  Cameron's  face  had  not  changed  in 
the  least  while  her  daughter  was  speak- 
ing. She  now  replied,  in  her  low,  musical 
voice. 

"  •  Respected '  Is  scarcely  the  term  I  would 
care  to  hear  applied  to  the  daughter  of  Sir 
Allan  Cameron,"  she  said.  "One  speaks  of 
tradespeople  and  such  as  respectable. 
Really,  Dorothy,  you  have  no  consideration 
whatever  for  the  duties  of  your  position." 

"  Mother,  '  God  Is  no  respecter  of  per- 
sons.' "  replied  Dorothy  gently. 

But  Lady  Cameron  did  not  appear  to  hear. 
"  Dorothy,"  she  said,  "  I  am  astonished  at 
your  want  of  good  sense.  Here  you  are, 
just  grown  up  and  ready  to  enter  society. 
You  are  considered  very  pretty,  my  dear, 
and  may  associate  with  the  best  In  the  land. 
There  is  nothing  to  prevent  your  having  a 
very  brilliant  social  career.  Instead  you 
prefer  to  don  a  hideous  black  costume  and 
bury  yourself  like  a  nun." 

"  But,  mother,"  Dorothy  ventured,  "  I  have 
no  objection  to  society  —  I  think  It's  lovely. 
But  — but  I'm  afraid  that  I  shall  have  to 
give  all  my  time  to  it,  by  and  by.  and  —  and 
I  couldn't  be  happy  then,  I  know." 

"Why  not,  then,  keep  on  as  you  are, 
prowling  about  In  the  slums  occasionally, 
without  making  yourself  ridiculously  odd  by 
wearing  that  ugly  dress?" 


64 


A   STAR   IN  A  PBISON. 


"  I  will  if  you  say  so,  motber,"  returned 
Dnrotliy,  "but—" 

Lady  Cameron  arose  witli  a  determined 
air.  "  Dorotliy,"  slie  said,  "  if  you  liave  any 
respect  for  my  wislies,  do  not  mention  this 
thing  again.  It  is  too  utterly  absurd.  I  had 
thought  better  of  you," 

The  girl's  face  flushed  crimson.  "  Very 
well,  mother,"  she  said,  "  I  shall  drop  it 
here  and  now.  But  may  I  ask  you  for  just 
one  favor?"  -Vov  .>    \'- 

-   "  Certainly.    What  is  It?" 

"  May  I  go  out  visiting  occasionally  with 
Sister  Dell?  She  is  such  a  lovely  charactei', 
and  I  haven't  any  one  to  go  with  since 
Octavia  will  not  go  again."     "      :; ;  "   '  ^ '    ; 

"Yes,  yes!"  was  the  impatient  reply,  "go 
with  her  as  much  as  you  please.  Child, 
child!  you  will  drive  me  crazy  with  your 
notions!"  And  Lady  Cameron  pressed  her 
white  hands  to  her  head  as  though  half  dis- 
tracted. ;>. 

Dorothy  arose  and  threw  her  arms  impul- 
sively about  her  mother. 

"  Dear  mother,  I  w  ill  not  make  a  friend  of 
even  Sister  Dell,  if  you  do  not  wlcb  me  to." 

Lady  Cameron's  face  softened.  '     r. 

"  I  have  no  objection  to  Sister  Dell,"  she 
said.  "I  believe  she  is  a  very  fine  person, 
indeed.  In  fact,  her  brother  is  one  of  the 
most  prominent  clergymen  in  the  diocese. 
I^lOW,  then,  are  you  satisfied?"  xj.  »- 

"Yes,  mother,"  Dorothy  returned;  then, 
with  a  pudden  impulse,  she  kissed  her 
mother  on  the  clieek,  and  a  hot  tear  fell 
up'on  it  as  she  said,  "  Mother  dear,  thank 
you." 

When  she  had  left  the  room  Lady  Canv 
ercn  half  si  bed  as  she  thought,  "If  she 
were  only  more  like  Octavia  Edgar  in  her 
tastes!"  Then  she  smiled  as  her  thoughts 
ran  on,  "  But  she  is  such  a  dear,  little  crea- 
ture, after  all!  I  don't  know  as  I  would  have 
her  different." 

From  that  day  Lady  Cameron  smiled  on 
her  dai7ghter's  growing  intimacy  with  Sister 
Dell,  and  when  the  hot  days  came  consented 


to  the  Sister's  proposal  that  Dorothy  should 
accompany  her  to  a  place  in  the  wilds  of  the 
mountain  country,  at  which  her  brother  had 
once  had  a  mission  church,  and  whither  she 
was  going  for  the  sake  of  recuperating  her 
health  and  for  the  unbroken  rest  which 
such  a  spot  of  entire  seclusion  would 
afford. 

Thus  the  visit  was  arranged  for,  and,  In 
great  delight,  Dorothy  prepared  for  the  holi- 
day, little  dreaming  that  ere  its  close  she 
was  to  be  brought  directly  to  Gertrude 
Steinhoff,  of  whom  she  was  of  late  begin- 
ning to  grow  forgetful. 


•  \ 


CHAPTER  XV» 


THE   STEINHOFFS 
AGAIN. 

URING  all  this  time, 
Adolphe  Belleau,  the 
French  boy,  had 
been  going  about, 
picking  up  odd  jobs 
here  and  there,  and 
keeping  always  tolerably 
happy.  As  he  grew 
taller  and  stronger,  he 
found  it  much  easier  to 
obtain  work,  and  he  at 
last  succeeded  in  getting 
a  situation  with  a  party  of  lumbermen  who 
were  going  far  up  one  of  the  numerous 
rivers,  down  which  Jumber  is  continually 
being  floated  throughout  the  timber  limits 
of  the  Lower  Province. 

After  that  he  drifted  from  place  to  place, 
in  all  sorts  of  out-of-the-way  corners,  until 
one  day  he  found  himself  upon  a  small 
island  in  the  midst  of  a  rushing  river.  Upon 
this  island  was  built  a  very  curious  little 
village,  inhabited  by  a  few  French  lumber- 
men. The  houses,  of  which  there  were  less 
than  a  dozen,  were  built  of  logs,  in  a  style 
peculiar  to  themselves,  low  and  with  widely 


fm  1 


^imr 


T 


tf 


I'.''*" 


A   STAB   IW  A   PRISON. 


65 


y  should 
is  of  the 
ther  had 
ther  she 
ting  her 
t  which 
I    would 

and,  In 
the  holi- 
lose  she 
Sertrude 
;e  begiu- 


lOFFS 

Ills  time, 
leau,  the 
y ,  had 
about, 
)dd  jobs 
ere.  and 
olerably 
grew 
iger,  he 
'asier  to 
d  he  at 
1  getting 
len  who 
umerous 
itinually 
r  limits 

0  place, 
rs,  until 
a    small 

Upon 
us  little 
lumber- 
'^ere  less 
a  style 

1  widely 


projecting  eaves,  and  seemed  to  have  been 
set  down  without  any  regard  to  system  or 
order.  There  was  no  semblance  of  a  street, 
but  grass-grown  paths  led  from  house  to 
house. 

A  sawmill  was  built  at  one  end  of  the 
island,  and  a  strong  bridge  led  from  it  to 
the  main  shore.  At  the  other  end  tall  cliffs 
covered  with  blueberry  bushes  and  June- 
berry  trees  arose,  while  yet  taller  cliffs, 
densely  wooded,  closed  in  upon  the  banks  of 
the  river  on  either  side.  There  was  neither 
store,  nor  school,  nor  post-office.  All  these 
were  to  be  found  at  a  scarcely  less  secluded 
mountain  village 
across  the  forest,  to 
which  pilgrimages 
were  made  at  differ-  , 
ent  periods  once  or  ■ 
twice  a  year  by  a 
few  of  the  denizens 
of  the  hamlet,  who 
there  purchased  sui)- 
plies  of  provisions  for 
all  the  rest.  v,  iv 

The  few  people  who 
lived  on  the  island 
spoke  only  French. 
It  seemed  a  spot  hid- 
den from  the  world, 
and,  indeed,  these 
simple  people  had  but 
little  intercourse  with 
any  one  outside  of 
their  own  small 
sphere.  Most  of  them 
could  not  read.  In- 
terested only  in  their  mill  and  their  iumber, 
they  lived  a  hidden,  sleepy  and  not  unhappy 
life. 

Adolphe,  of  course,  almost  immediately 
started  on  a  trip  of  discovery  about  the 
island.  As  he  reached  the  cliffs^,  he  noticed 
a  small  and  secluded  cabin  at  the  foot  of  the 
rocks  and  partly  hidden  by  trees.  Opposite 
to  it,  upon  a  broad  granite  boulder,  sat  a 
girl,  dressed  in  the  short,  coarse,  yet  pictur- 


esviue,  garb  of  the  French  peasantry,  but 
before  Adolphe  reached  her  he  caught  a 
glimpse  of  bright  golden  hair.  He  started 
and  looked  at  her  sliavply.  She  was  sitting 
lookiKg  into  the  water,  with  an  attitude 
tiiat  betokened  deep  dejection.    He  crept  be- 


Dpon  a  granite  boulder  sat  a  young:  girJ. 


hind  some  Iwshos  closer  to  the  water,  so  that 
he  might  see  her  face. 

Yes,  it  was  Gertrude,  paler  and  thinner 
than  before,  and  with  a  hectic  flush  on  her 
cheek. ...  „.^.^,. -;-,.; v. ,,-,.:  -^^^^^.^^<f^ig^-...-^ -^^ 

"  Poor  leetle  creature!"  thought  Adolphe. 
"  So  dis  is  w'ere  she  Is  come,  Instead  of  In 
Europe!  It  Is  no  wonner  ehe  have  de  i!ace 
pale  an'  de  h«ad  down!"  i^*? 

He  could  not  de(;ide  wuat  would  be  th«' 


\>^^/v:^.i^- 


66 


A   STAB   IN  A  PS  I  SON. 


best  thing  for  him  to  do.  He  could  not  tell 
Dr.  Keith  Cameron  of  his  discovery,  for  he 
had  not  yet  returned  from  Europe.  Then  he 
bethought  himself  that  Miss  Dorothy  Cam- 
eron, with  Adolphe's  sister,  Agnes,  and  a 
black-gowned  lady,  was  to  arrive  at  the  vil- 
lage of  L— — ,  across  the  forest,  in  a  few 
days.  Agnes  had  written  him  so.  He  would 
wait  until  they  came  and  confer  with  Miss 
Dorothy.  In  the  meantime,  he  would  try  to 
get  a  glimpse  of  Hermann,  if  he  were  still 
there.  , 

He  crept  away  without  alarming  the  girl, 
and  ascertained  from  one  of  the  children 
that  an  old  man  lived  in  the  cabin  before 
which  he  had  seen  the  golden-haired  girl; 
that  his  name  was  Monsieur  Adler,  and  that 
the  pretty  lady  was  Mademoiselle  Adler; 
that  Mademoiselle  Adler  was  very  lovely 
and  kind.  She  had  been  teaching  the  chil- 
dren to  read  and  write  until  lately,  but  she 
was  very  often  ill  now,  and  could  do  so  no 
longer. 

That  evening  Adolphe  lay  on  the  cliffs 
above  the  cabin,  concealed  among  the  blue- 
berry bushes,  and  watched  once  more  to  see 
the  old  man.  He  was  at  last  successful. 
Just  at  twilight  the  two  fugitives  issued 
from  the  door  and  walked  slowly  down  by 
the  river  bank,  Hermann  leaning  upon  the 
arm  of  the  frail  girl  for  support.  His  steps 
were  tottering,  and  he  seemed  on  the  very 
brink  of  the  grave. 

Adolphe  Belleau's  pulses  beat  faster  at  the 
sight  of  him. 

"Ah!"  he  thought,  "dere  is  de  man  w'at 
can  set  Wllhelm  SteinhoCf  free  if  he  will  do 
it!  Heem  not  leev  long  anyway.  Some  wan 
mus'  hurry  up  make  him  spik  queeck.  It  is 
wan  beeg  shame  for  de  young  man  In  de 
'pen'  an'  de  young  lady  in  dis  hole  so  long, 
all  for  dat  mean  ole  duffer  keep  too  quiet! 
I  wish  de  doctor  come  home  soon.  Heem  de 
wan  to  mak'  de  ole  feller  confess!" 
.  Hermann  Stelnhoflf  and  his  granddaughter 
had  come,  by  a  circuitous, route,  directly  to 
this  island,  which  Hermann  had  come  upon 


by  accident  when  trapping  years  before. 
Here,  almost  out  of  reach  of  telegraph  or 
newspaper,  he  had  felt  quite  secure.  The 
passing  curiosity  of  the  few  people  who 
lived  here  was  easily  satisfied.  Besides,  the 
cost  of  living,  in  this  hidden  spot,  was  ex- 
ceedingly small. 

But,  notwithstanding  all  this,  Hermann 
was  far' from  being  contented.  He  felt  that 
he  had  wrecked  Gertrude's  life,  yet  he 
feared  to  return  to  civilization  with  her.  He 
had  never  confessed  to  her,  or  given  her  any 
inkling  of  the  cause  of  his  hiding.  He  had 
impressed  upon  her  the  need  of  absolute 
secrecy,  and  had  insisted  on  their  adopting 
an  assumed  name;  and,  filled  with  a  name- 
less dread  of  she  knew  not  what  calam- 
ity, his  granddaughter  had  yielded  to  his 
will. 

Gertrude  was  often  very  unhappy.  She 
felt  that  something  dreadful  had  happened, 
and  her  very  ignorance  of  that  terrible  thing 
Invested  it  with  a  vague  and  awful  horror. 
This  preyed  upon  her  day  by  day,  until  it 
was  little  wonder  that  her  face  grew  pale 
and  her  roupd  cheeks  hollow. 

Then,  too,  she  missed  her  old,  happy  life 
in  the  city,  and  the  many  young  friends  she 
had  known  there.  Above  all,  she  felt  the 
loss  of  Wilhelm.  Too  late  she  had  come  to 
realize  that  she  cared  for  him  even  as  he  had 
cared  for  her.  She  wondered  if  he  would 
ever  find  her.  She  thought  he  was  assuredly 
searching  for  her,  for  he  had  said  he  would. 
The  temptation  to  write  to  him  was  at  times 
almost  Irresistible,  but  Hermann  had  forbid- 
den her  to  do  so,  claiming  that  harm  would 
follow,  both  to  themselves  and  to  Wllhelm. 

Then,  with  a  fear  of  becoming  wholly 
melancholy,  she  had  sought  for  some  work 
to  do,  and  had  gathered  in  the  little  ignor- 
ant children  in  order  that  she  might  teach 
them.  Their  loving,  innocent  ways  had 
touched  her,  and  her  heart  began  to  go  out 
to  those  about  her.  She  had  ministered  wher- 
ever there  was  sickness  or  death,  and  the 
simple  folk  of  the  secluded  hamlet  blesse'' 


A   STAB   IN  A  PBISON. 


67 


her.  So  the  days  passed  on,  long,  lonely, 
yet  not  altogether  wasted,  until  shfe  grew 
too  weak  to  go  about  longer.  One  day 
she  was  suddenly  obliged  to  take  to  her  bed. 
Adolphe,  who  was  still  in  the  vicinity,  heard 
of  her  illness,  and  grew  still  more  impatient 
for    the    arrival    of    Dorothy    Cameron    at 

L .     She  arrived  before  he  was  aware 

of  it. 

One  hot  day  towards  the  end  of  July,  an 
unusual  sight  might  have  been  seen  on  the 
banks  of  the  stream  just  below  the  village. 
In  a  green  bower,  formed  by  overhanging 
beech  and  maple  trees,  sat  a  fair  girl  and  a 
woman  whose  sombre  and  loosely  -  formed 
garments  could  not  rob  her  of  the  sweetness 
of  her  face.  Dorothy's  head  was  on  Sister 
Dell's  knee,  and  her  broad  hat,  wreathed 
with  ferns,  was  thrown  on  the  ground  near. 
Great  rocks,  green  with  mosses  and  lichen, 
arose  beyond,  and  a  little  waterfall,  whose 
crystal  drops  trickled  and  dripped  from 
ledge  to  ledge,  murmured  musically  near. 
Sister  Dell  was  quietly  enjoying  the  rest. 
Dorothy  was  thinking  that  it  was  indeed  a 
day  whereon  it  was  enough  "  not  to  be  do- 
ing, but  to  be." 

They  were  startled  by  the  sound  of  some- 
one breaking  through  the  greenery  of  the 
underwood,  hen  a  face  appeared,  and  Dor- 
othy cried  in  surprise,      \dolphe!" 

He  ad  n need,  hat  iu  hand.  "You  will 
pardon  me  ''or  dis  intrusion.  Mademoiselle," 
he  said;  tl  i,  glancing  at  Sister  Dell,  he 
went  on  in  a  alf -whisper,  "  I  have  found  de 
SteinhoCfs!" 

"What!    Where?"  exclaimed  Dorothy. 

"Very  near  — jus'  on  de  oder  side  de 
fores',"  he  replied.  "  An'  w'at  is  more,  de 
golden-hair  Is  very  seeck.  De  ole  man  is 
very  much  distress.  Somet'ing  mus'  be  soon 
done.  If  de  ole  man  die  very  queek,  dere's 
no  more  hope  for  Wilhelm  SteinhoflP  to  get 
free." 

Dorothy  was  staring  at  him  In  perplexity. 
"But  what  can  I  do,  Adolphe?"  she  asked, 
helplessly. 


"  If  you  woL'ld  write  to  de  good  doctor,  to 
ask  what  he  say  about  it  —  queeck.  Madem- 
oiselle. Den  if  you  could  perhaps  see  de 
golden-hair—" 

Dorothy  nodded.  "  I  see,"  she  said.  "  But 
we  will  keep  veiy  quiet  about  It  until  we 
hear  from  my  brother." 

"  Certain,"  returned  Adolphe,  emphatic- 
ally, "we  mus'  not  alarm  dem.  Dey  safe 
anyway.  Dat  ole  man  heem  now  too  ole, 
too  feeble,  to  put  in  de  'pen.'  Dey  never  put 
heem  dere  now."  , 

He  then  proceeded,  with  many  a  gesture, 
to  relate  all  the  circumstances  of  his  visit 
to  the  island,  and  his  story  was  heard  with 
the  most  intense  interest  both  by  Dorothy 
and  by  Sister  Dell,  to  whom  the  main  facts 
of  the  case  were  already  known.  When 
Adolphe  had  departed  to  the  village  in 
search  of  his  sister,  the  two  friends  had  a 
consultation  as  to  what  they  should  now  do. 
It  was  decided  that,  in  consideration  of  Sis- 
ter Dell's  connection  with  a  charitable  and 
religious  body,  she  might  pay  a  visit  to  the 
sick  girl  without  fear  of  being  thought  pre- 
sumptuous, and,  if  necessary,  might  con- 
tinue to  wait  upon  her.  Dorothy  for  the 
present  would  remain  where  she  was. 

Accordingly,  dressed  in  her  long  black 
robes.  Sister  Dell  set  out  across  the  forest  on 
the  following  day.  She  found  Gertrude  very 
ill  indeed,  and  Hermann  in  despair.  He  had 
forgotten  his  own  danger  in  that  of  his  dar- 
ling, and  was  ready  to  welcome  this  calm, 
kindly  woman,  who  so  sweetly  offered  to 
take  charge  of  the  sick  one. 

During  the  long,  hot  nights  that  followed. 
Gertrude  raved  incessantly,  talking  now  of 
some  almost  forgotten  incident  of  her  old 
life,  now  of  Wilhelm,  calling  upon  him  to 
come  and  save  her  from  her  loneliness,  from 
the  dreadful  dangers  that  were  closing  in 
about  her.  Sometimes  old  Hermann  would 
hear  her,  and  would  bow  his  head  and  rub 
the  tears  from  his  eyes. 

At  last  one  night,  towards  morning,  Sister 
Dell,  looking  up  from  her  book,  for  she  was 


im 


68 


A   STAB    IN  A   PRISON. 


quietly  rending,  found  Gertrude's  great,  sol- 
emn eyes  fixed  upon  her. 

"  Who  are  you  ?"  she  asked. 

"  I  am  Sister  Dell." 

"And  you  have  been  taking  care  of  me?" 

"  I  have  been  trying  to." 

The  sick  girl  closed  her  eyes  for  a  mo- 
ment, then  opened  them  again,  with  the 
same  wistful,  half-fearful  gaze. 

"  I  have  been  talking  a  great  deal,  have  1 
not?*'  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  dear.    Now,  try  to  go  to  sleep." 

"  But  I  cannot  go  to  sleep,  and  I  must 
talk.  I  have  been  speaking  about  Wilhelm, 
haven't  I?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Do  you  know  whom  I  meant?"  Ger- 
trude raised  her  head  from  the  pillow  and 
asked  the  question  searchingly. 

Sister  Dell  could  not  evade  the  question. 

"  I  think  we  had  better  not  talk  about 
this,  to-night,"  she  said.  "  You  must  not 
excite  yourself,  by  talking." 

"  Tell  me,"  pleaded  Gertrude.  "  I  shall  be 
much  more  excited  if  you  do  not  answer  my 
question." 

"Well,  then,"  replied  Sister  Dell,  "I 
thought  you  meant  Wilhelm  Steinhoff." 

Gertrude  returned  in  a  low  voice,  "  Yes,  I 
meant  Wilhelm  SteinhoflC.  Can  you  tell  me 
anything  of  him?" 

Her  great  eyes  were  again  reading  the  Sis- 
ter's face,  and  the  latter  answered  hastily, 
"  I  can  tell  you  that  he  is  well.  He  is  not  in 
the  city  now,  so  I  know  little  more  about 
him.  Now  then,  I  insist  on  your  not  asking 
any  more  questions,  dear.  Rememlser,"  she 
added  in  a  low  voice,  "  for  Wilhelm's  sake 
you  must  grow  strong  and  well."  And  Ger- 
trude was  then  willing  to  be  patient. 

In  the  meantime.  Dorothy  had  written  to 
Keith.  He  received  her  letter  just  as  he 
was  starting  for  home;  and,  after  a  short 
stop  in  the  capital  to  see  his  mother,  he  pro- 
ceeded at  once  to  the  mountain  village  at 
which  his  sister  was  staying. 

One  fine  afternoon  he  and  Dorothy  arrived 


at  the  Island.  He  proceeded  at  once  to  have 
an  interview  with  Hermann.  For  hours  the 
two  men  were  closeted  together.  No  one 
ever  knew  what  was  said  in  that  long,  secret 
conversation,  but  Dorothy  noticed  that  when 
they  came  out  the  expression  of  Keith's  face 
was  almost  triumphant,  while  Hermann  had 
beejQ  weeping. 

In  his  hand  Keith  held  a  paper  upon  which 
something  was  written.  Sister  Dell  was 
asked  to  read  it.  Then  it  was  placed  on  a 
table,  and  the  faltering  old  man,  with  the 
tears  still  wet  upon  his  withered  cheeks,  sat 
down  and  slowly  signed  his  name,  though 
the  hand  trembled  so  that  he  couW  scarcely 
hold  the  pen.  Then  Keith  and  Sister  Dell 
also  affixed  their  signatures  as  witnesses. 
It  was  Hermann  Steinhofif's  confession. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

JACK    LEAVES    A    FAREWELL    FOR 
BUNNY. 

URING  that  spring, 
before  Keith  Cam- 
eron's    return,     a 
terrible  thing  hap- 
V^-'^t^^^VBWMr         pened  in  the  Cana- 

ZJ^'^Kilj^^B^^     ^^^°  pe?nitentiary. 
%.  ^ilW^BH^        For     many,     many 

days  Fisherman  Jack 
had  been  revolving  a 
bold  plan  in  his  mind. 
Day  after  day  he 
grew  more  and  more 
sullen,  more  and  more  moody.  Day  after 
day,  when  working  in  the  back  of  the  pri- 
son, he  thought  of  the  ice-covered  channel 
that  lay  just  without  the  walls.  Then,  when 
the  ice  grew  thin  and  rotten  and  began  to 
break,  he  wrote  a  letter.    It  said: 

"  Dear  Bunny:  I  am  going  to  run  away  if 
I  can.  I  want  to  say  good-by  to  you,  for 
mebbe  I  kant  get  across  for  the  ice  and 


A  STAB   IN  A  PBISON. 


69 


mebbe  the  gard  will  see  me  and  shoot,  but 
I  kant  stand  this  life  any  longer,  and  I  am 
in  for  fifteen  yeres  more.  I  always  thot  a 
lot  of  you,  Bunny;  don't  forgit  me,  and  If  I 
get  drounded  plese  don't  think  eny  harder 
of  me  than  you  have  to.  I  beleave  you're 
not  gllty  as  you  say,  and  I  hope  you  will 
soone  get  free.    Good-by  from  Jack." 

This  letter  he  addressed  to  "  Mr.  Bunny 
Hare.  No.  875;"  but  he  did  not  give  it  to  the 
keeper  who  carried  the  letters.  He  pinned 
it  very  carefully  on  the  under  side  of  his 
hard  pillow. 

That  day  he  had,  with  a  number  of  others, 
a  task  at  repairing  the  wall  close  beside  the 
water.  As  the  shades  of  evening  began  to 
draw  on  he  watched  for  his  opportunity. 
The  guards,  deeming  the  rushing,  swollen 
current,  covered  with  blocks  of  ice,  a 
sufficient  preventive  of  escape,  were  keeping 
a  rather  careless  watch  upon  the  men  under 
their  oare. 

At  a  moment  when  no  one  was  looking,  he 
dashed  into  the  boiling  flood,  and,  trusting 
to  his  giant  strength,  began  swimming  for 
the  opposite  side.  The  prisoners  who  had 
been  working  with  him  stared,  dumb  with 
astonishment.  Now  they  saw  his  great 
head  appear  above  the  mad  waves;  now 
It  suddenly  disappeared  as  he  dived  be- 
neath a  floating  piece  of  ice.  The  men 
watching  moved  not  a  muscle.  As  they 
realized  what  he  was  attempting  to  do  they 
gazed  breathlessly,  hoping  for  his  success, 
and  determined  not  to  tell  on  a  comrade. 
Then  a  guard,  turning,  saw  the  gray,  mo- 
tionless figures  below,  staring  out  over  the 
water.  He,  too,  looked,  and  saw  for  one  In- 
stant the  black  head  appear,  about  half  way 
across.  He  raised  his  rifle  to  fire,  then  low- 
ered it  and  raised  a  loud  alarm,  commanding 
some  one  to  go  across  by  the  bridge  to  the 
other  side. 

In  the  meantime,  the  convict's  strength 
appeared  to  be  failing.  The  ice-cold  water 
seemed  to  be  cramping  his  limbs.  His 
strokes  grew  weaker  and  more  spasmodic. 


Once  more  he  disappeared  beneath  a  floe  of 
pure,  white  ice,  and  this  time  he  rose  no 
more.    Fisherman  Jack  was  dead. 

Slowly  and  sadly  the  shivering  group  of 
convicts  returned  to  their  cells,  and  those 
within,  looking  at  the  excited,  frightened 
expression  of  their  faces,  wondered  what 
had  happened.  It  was  noticed  tlmt  Fisher- 
man Jack's  great,  burly  form  was  not  with 
them. 

That  night  Chaplain  Hare  carded  the  let- 
ter to  the  cell  of  No.  875.  It  was  the  flrst 
communication  which  Wllhelm  had  received 
in  the  prison.  He  read  the  note,  and  looked 
anxiously  at  the  chaplain. 

"He  did  not  return  with  the  rest,"  he  said; 
"  lie  is—" 

"  Drowned,"  supplied  the  chaplain,  sorrow- 
fully. 

Wilhelm  placed  his  hands  across  his  eyes 
for  a  moment,  then  sadly  folded  the  paper, 
with  its  pitiful  story,  and  placed  it  in  his 
bosom.  "Poor  Jack!"  he  said.  That  was 
all.    There  was  nothing  more  to  be  said. 

"  Mr.  Steinhoff,"  said  the  chaplain  after  a 
time,  "  you  will  pardon  my  curiosity,  will 
you  not?  I  have  an  object  in  asking.  Why 
did  poor  Jack  address  you  as  Bunny  Hare?" 

"Because,"  said  Wilhelm,  "that  is  real'y 
my  name  —  William  Hare." 

The  chaplain  was  regarding  him  anxiously 
and  tenderly,  "  Do  you  know  what  your 
father's  name  was?"  he  asked,  "or  anything 
whatever  about  him?" 

"  I  know  nothing  of  him,"  returned  Wil- 
helm, slowly,  "  except  that  his  name  was 
Northcote  Hare,  and  that  he  and  my  mother 
both  died  when  I  was  almost  a  baby." 

The  chaplain  s<jized  him  by  the  hand. 
"Northcote  Hare!"  he  exclaimed.  "There 
could  be  only  one  of  that  name,  and  he  was 
my  brother,  my  long-lost  brother!  Dear  lad, 
why  did  you  not  tell  me  this  before?" 

Wilhelm's  hearty  grasp  was  returning  the 
pressure  of  the  other's  hand.  "  Because,"  he 
said,  "  it  is  scarcely  a  convict's  place  to 
claim  the  relationship  even  of  a  name." 


70 


A   STAB   IN  A  PBiaON. 


The  chaplain  was  regarding  his  face  with 
a  gaze  of  penetrating  tenderness.  "  Ah,  I 
see  it  now,"  he  was  saying  to  himself,  "  the 
loolc  that  seemed  so  strangely  familiar  — 
Northcote's  own  look.  My  boy,  my  boy!  this 
is  a  glad  revelation  to  me." 

Then  the  two  men  sat  down  upon  the 
cot  upon  which  they  had  so  often  rested, 
and  Wilhelm  related  the  little  he  knew  of  his 
childhood  —  of  how  an  old  woman  had  once 
told  him  that  his  fq^ther,  when  dying,  had 
given  a  woman  money  to  pay  her  for  keep- 
ing the  little  laa  and  giving  him  a  trade, 
but  that  she  had  kept  the  money,  and  had 
managed  in  some  way  to  get  little  Bunny 
off  into  Fisherman  Jack's  care.  Bunny  had 
always  remembered  the  words,  for  it  had 
seemed  to  him  strange  that  he  had  ever  had 
a  father. 

And  Wilhelm  rejoiced  in  this  new-found 
relationship.  He  felt  that  in  this  uncle  his 
father  had  returned  to  him. 


CHAPTER  XVn. 
KEITH  VISITS  THE  PENITENTIARY. 

BITH  a  ad  Dorothy  had 
returned  to  the  city.  By 
reason  of  Hermann 
Steinhoff's  great  age  and 
exceeding  frailty,  the 
doctor  felt  quite  confi- 
dent of  preventing  an 
arrest.  He  had  great  influence  with  the  city 
officials  and  knew  it.  Consequently  he  had 
given  Hermann  some  security  for  believing 
that  his  liberty  would  not  be  interfered  with. 
However,  he  had  requested  him  to  come,  as 
soon  as  convenient,  to  the  capital,  where  his 
presence  might  possibly  be  required  in  hast- 
ening the  matter  of  Wilhelm's  liberation. 
To  this  Hermann  had  at  once  given  his 
assent. 

Keith  had  promptly  taken  steps  towards 
securing  the  young  man's  speedy  removal 


from  the  prison,  but,  owing  to  some  com- 
plications, the  matter  was  delayed,  much 
to  the  physician's  annoyance.  In  the  mean- 
time, Keith  took  a  trip  to  the  Limestone 
City. 

At  the  penitentiary  he  was  received  by 
the  warden  himself,  and  shown  into  a  pri- 
vate chamber.  It  was  not  considered 
necessary  for  the  distinguished  physician 
and  philanthropist,  Keith  Cameron,  to  be 
taken  to  the  iron- barred  apartment  in 
which,  in  the  presence  of  a  guard,  the  con- 
victs were  obliged  to  hold  all  conversations 
with  their  visitors. 

"Can  you  send  Steinhofif  to  me  immedi- 
ately?" he  said.    "  My  time  is  limited." 

"Certainly,"  returned  the  warden.  "By 
the  way,  a  rather  peculiar  thing  has  hap- 
pened. It  turns  out  that  this  man,  Steln- 
hoff,  is  a  nephew  of  the  chaplain  here.  Mr. 
Hare  believes  him  to  be  Innocent." 

Keith  gave  a  nod  of  approval.  , "  The 
matter  has  been,  to  my  mind,  proved,"  he 
said;  "only  some  miserable  technicalities 
are  preventing  his  immediate  liberation." 

"  Indeed!  I  am  glad  of  it,"  was  the  war- 
den's reply.  "  His  conduct  has  been  most 
exemplary.  I  am  under  the  impression  that 
he  is  a  fine  fellow." 

The  warden  departed,  and  in  a  moment 
Wilhelm  Steinhofif  entered.  He  recognized 
the  noted  physician  at  once,  bowed  low,  and 
then  stood  in  silent  courtesy.  The  day  was 
rather  warm.  Wilhelm  had  been  working 
hard,  and  the  only  upper  garment  he 
wore  was  a  coarse,  sleeveless  woolen  shirt, 
opened  at  the  throat,  and  thus  exposing  a 
chest  massive  in  its  strength.  His  arms 
were  bare,  and  the  great  muscles  stood  out 
like  ropes  beneath  the  skin.  There  was  no 
look  of  prison  depravity  about  the  frank, 
manly  countenance,  no  look  of  dulled  mental 
faculties  about  the  deep,  intellectual  eyes. 
None  of  these  details  escaped  the  sharp, 
quick  scrutiny  of  the  doctor.  Keith  had  the 
greatest  admiration  for  a  grand  physique. 

He  felt  the  profoundest  sympathy  for  this 


A  8  TAB   IN  A   PRItiON. 


71 


young  convict  thus  bravely  enduring  a  trial 
wrongly  imposed  upon  him.  Without  spealc- 
ing  a  word,  he  held  out  his  hand.  Wilhelm 
hesitated,  their  eyes  met,  then  the  convict 
seized  the  white,  shapely  hand  of  the  other 
in  the  strong,  warm  grasp  of  his  hardened 
hand. 

"  Steinhoff,"  said  Keith,  In  a  low,  exultant 
tone,  "  i  have  come  to  bring  you  good  news. 
Yqur  Innocence  has  been  fully  established." 

For  one  moment  the  strong  man  felt  as 
though  he  should  fall.  He  grew  pale  to  the 
lips.  Then  a  great  light  shone  in  his  face,  a 
sudden,  glorious  light,  that  quickly  van- 
ished. 

"  But  Hermann  —  Gertrude  —  where  are 
they?"  he  asked,  his  voice  full  of  anxiety. 

"  They  are  safe,  and  be  will  be  so,  I  trust," 
returned  the  doctor.  "  Hermann  has,  indeed, 
confessed,  but  he  is  now  almost  on  the  verge 
of  the  grave.  In  fact  he  cannot  live  longer 
than  a  year.    He  will  not  be  arrested." 

"And  my  sister?" 

"Win  be  In  the  capital  at  an  early 
date." 

The  terrible  strain  was  at  an  end.  The 
convict  dropped  Into  a  chair,  bowed  his  head 
upon  the  table  and  trembled.  Could  it  be 
possible  that  the  weary  days  of  drudgery 
were  over?  that  once  more  he  was  to  go 
forth  to  life,  with  his  name  unsullied?  He 
could  scarcely  realize  It,  and  Dr.  Cameron 
stood  by,  looking  down  upon  him  with  a 
great  Joy  at  his  heart,  scarcely  less  moved 
than  he. 

Then  the  convict  raised  his  head  and  there 
were  teays  In  his  eyes.  "  Dr.  Cameron,"  he 
said,  "  you  have  been  the  means  of  bringing 
this  about.  I  cannot  thank  you,  unless  the 
knowledge  of  my  joy  and  gratitude  can  be 
your  reward." 

But  Keith  shook  his  head, 
little  to  do  with  it,"  he  said, 
thanks   for  the  French  boy, 
lean  — you  remember?" 

Wilhelm  did  remember.  That  scene  of  the 
court  room,  the  flushed  boyish  face  full  of 


" I  have  had 

"  Keep  your 

Adolphe  Bel- 


sympathy  and  IndlgQation,  the  shrill  treble 
which  had  cried  out,  •*  Heem  never  do  Itl 
Heem  Innocent  as  you!"  had  been  often  be- 
fore him;  but  now,  whenever  he  thought  of 
that  young  face,  another  arose  beside  it,  a 
sallow,  sunken  face,  with  grtit,  haunting 
dark  eyes  — that  of  No.  869. 

Then  Keith  sat  down  and  told  him  all  the 
circumstances,  as  they  have  been  related  In 
these  pages;  circumstances  fraught  with  in- 
tense Interest  for  the  man  who  listened  as 
though  his  life  depended  upon  every  word. 
Wilhelm  would  not  be  immediately  released, 
but  that  mattered  nothing  now.  He  could 
dream  of  the  earth  that  seemed  fair  as  para- 
dise, and  of  blue  skies  and  floating  clouds 
unbounded  by  prison  walls,  of  friends  —  ah, 
of  his  friend,  for  had  he  any  now  but  Ger- 
trude? The  waiting  would  be  a  fever.  But 
he  could  wait. 

"Will  you  tell  me,"  said  Keith,  drawing 
out  his  watch,  "  what  is  your  impression  of 
human  nature  as  you  have  observed  It  dur- 
ing your  stay  here?" 

Wilhelm  looked  off  through  the  window  to 
the  garden,  in  which  silent,  gray-clad  figures 
were  bending  over  the  ground,  occasionally 
lifting  expressionless  or  scowling  faces  as 
they  stood  up  from  their  work. 

"  I  have  found  this  to  be  true,"  he  said.  In 
his  deep  voice;  "  that  scarcely  a  man  of 
these  fallen  ones  Is  utterly,  Irremediably 
bad.  But  they  need  the  most  careful  treat- 
ment. In  many  of  them  sin  seems  to  be  a 
disease,  perhaps  hereditary.  These  find  it 
hardest  to  arise.  But  in  every  one  there  Is 
some  spot  which  might  yet  be  touched, 
some  germ  of  good  which  might  yet  be  de- 
veloped." 

He  paused  and  passed  his  hand  across  his 
brow. 

"I  believe  this  also  to  be  true,"  he  said: 
"  that  every  man,  no  matter  how  vile,  has 
at  some  time,  at  many  times,  during  his 
career,  had  the  experience  of  being  drawn 
towards  a  higher  life.  Of  not  choosing  to 
follow  these  promptings  a  fall  has  been  the 


f 


72 


result.  In  some,  gradually,  falling  bas 
grown  to  be  a  habit,  until  the  will  has  be- 
come almost  paralyzed." 

Dr.  Cameron  had  arisen,  and  was  pacing 
up  and  down  the  floor  with  folded  arms. 

"  Yes,"  he  exclaimed,  in  the  low,  musical 
voice  which  invested  everything  he  said 
with  a  peculiar  charm,  sending  his  utter- 
ances to  the  hearts  of  his  hearers,  "  would 
God  that  some  one  would  blazon  abroad 
from  end  to  "end  of  the  land  the  proclama- 
tion, '  Choose  ye,  for  in  not  choosing  there  is 
death!'  Yes,  death  of  the  faculties,  which 
is  the  natural,  inevitable  consequence  of 
drifting  — of  sin!"  He  paused.  "  And  yet  it 
would  be  sufficient  to  show  men  God,"  he 
continued;  "  that  would  change  all  things, 
bringing  brightness  and  light  where  all  is 
darl£." 

The  convict's  face  grew  strangely  tender. 
"  Yes,  Dr.  Cameron,"  he  said  in  his  rich, 
deep  tones,  "  the  knowledge  of  God  and  his 
love  has  been  able  to  transform  even  this 
prison  for  me." 

The,  doctor  turned  and  laid  his  hand  upon 
Wilhelm's  shoulder.  He  seemed  to  under- 
stand this  man.  "  Steinhoff,"  he  said,  "  I  be- 
lieve this  world  is  on  the  verge  of  a  great 
revival.  The  signs  of  the  times  point  to  a 
forward  movement,  perhaps  unprecedented. 
Unloss  I  am  greatly  mistaken  you  will  be 
one  of  its  most  powerful  vicegerents.  A  man 
who  can  thus  rise  above  such  an  environ- 
ment may  be  a  power  for  good,  were  it  only 
in  letting  his  life  shine." 

Wilhelm  did  not  reply,  and  presently  Dr. 
Cameron  took  his  departure.  The  convict 
went  back  to  his  cell,  but  from  that  day  he 
enjoyed  comparative  liberty,  and  his  shaven 
hair  was  allowed  to  grow  until  the  glossy 
waves  again  began  to  appear  about  his 
finely  formed  head. 


A   STAR   IN  A  PBISON. 

CHAPTER  XVin. 


1 
1 


LADY  OCTAVIA  OLDBURY'S  PARTY.     ^ 

PON  the  evening  of^ 
Keith's  return  from  the 
Limestone  City,  he  at- 
tended a  party  given  by 
Lady  Octavia  Oldbury. 
For  Octavia  Edgar  was 
married.  She  had  mar- 
ried a  man  of  wealth 
and  title,  and  every  one 
said  she  had  done  well. 
Her  dinners,  her  luncheons,  her  select  even- 
ings and  receptions,  were  the  admiration  of 
the  social  world,  and  Octavia  seemed  gayer, 
more  beautiful,  more  fascinating  than  ever. 
Keith  was  the  lion  of  the  occasion.  Every 
one  was  glad  to  welcome  hinfi  back  after  his 
long  absence  in  Europe.  Rather  late  In  the 
evening  he  went  out  alone  upon  a  broad 
balcony,  filled  with  flowers,  and  sat  down. 
The  house  was  on  the  high  bank  of  the 
river,  and  mountain  and  water  were  bathed 
in  moonlight.  It  was  very  still  and  peace- 
ful. Only  the  sound  of  the  orchestra 
floated  out  softly  upon  the  crisp  autumn  air. 
A  step  sounded  behind  him- and  he  looked 
around.  Octavia  stood  In  the  doorwa3% 
radiant  beneath  the  glow  of  a  colored  light 
and  framed  in  by  the  leaves  of  tall  palms 
behind  her.  She  was  magnificent  in  golden* 
hued  silk  and  diamonds. 

She  came  over  beside  him.  He  arose. 
"  Shall  I  bring  you  a  cloak?  It  Is  cool,"  he 
said. 

"Thank  you,  no;  here  is  a  shawl.  I  am 
hostess  now,  you  know,  so  must  go  in  very 
soon." 

"  You  have  a  beautiful  home,"  he  re- 
marked. "  This  view  of  river  and  mountain 
Is  inspiring." 

She  replied  absently,  "  Yes,  I  suppose  so;" 
then,  turning  towards  him  suddenly,  *'  What 
new  thing  did  you  learn  while  you  were 
away.  Dr.  Cameron?" 


'-"-V, 


A  STAB   IN  A   PRISON. 


73 


"  Many  things;  but,  most  of  all,  the  same 
old  lesson  over  again." 

"What  Is  that?" 

"  That  God  is  love,  and  that  we  become 
like  him  to  the  extent  that  we  live  in  com- 
munion with  him." 

She  looked  out  at  the  rippling  river 
silently. 

After  a  pause  she  said,  "  I  suppose  you  In- 
tend plunging  back. again  among  those  filthy 
poor  people,  as  soon  as  you  are  settled." 

"  •  No  mud  can  soil  us  but  the  mud  we 
throw,' "  quoted  Keith  with  a  smile.  "  I 
shall  certainly  go  back  among  my  poor.  I 
am  very  anxious  to  see  them  again.  Yet," 
he  reflected,  "  sometimes  I  think  I  should 
like  to  do  more  among  the  non-Christian 
rich,  if  only  I  knew  how.  Their  opportuni- 
ties for  coming  to  the  light  are  so  much 
greater  that  they  are  far  more  responsible 
for  their  rejection  of  Christ." 

"You  are  hitting  at  me,  as  of  yore,  doc- 
tor."   . 

"  I  was  not  thinking  of  you  in  the  least 
just  now,"  he  replied,  absently.  His  thouglit, 
indeed,  was  of  his  mother. 

"  You  think  God  is  love,  whatever  hap- 
pens?" she  asked. 

"We  are  told  that  'God  is  love,'"  he 
replied,  gently. 

She  turned  suddenly  and  leaned  towards 
him.  "  Dr.  Cameron,  you  are  clever,  learned, 
handsome,  benevolent,  useful,  with  the  pros- 
pect of  a  long  and  bright  life  before  you. 
If  you  were  to  become  suddenly  ill  and  per- 
haps have  to  die,  would  you  still  think  that 
God  is  love?  I  know  the  Bible  says  so.  but 
would  you  feel  it,  really?" 

"  I  do  not  know,"  he  replied.  "  It  is  a  hard 
test  that  you  would  put  upon ,  me.  Yet  1 
think  I  should  trust  that  In  the  end  all  must 
be  right  and  best.  Mortal  eyes  are  dimmed 
by  a  thousand  mists  and  vapors  which  give 
distorted  views  of  things.  'At  eventide  it 
shall  be  light.' " 

"  I  cannot  understand  this,"  she  said,  with 
a  sigh.    She  stood  leaning  over  the  balcony 


railing  for  a  moment,  then  added,  with  a 
start: 

"What  made  me  say  those  words?  I  try 
always  to  shut  my  eyes  to  everything  dis- 
agreeable. What  possessed  me  to  think  of 
anything  so  gruesome  to-night?  Forgive  me, 
will  you  not?" 

She  gave  him  her  hand  for  an  instant  and 
went  in. 

"After  all."  she  was  thinking,  "it  is  a 
blessing  he  never  cared  for  me  and  asked 
me  to  marry  him.  I  suppose  I  should  have 
done  so  once.  We  would  never  have  under- 
stood each  other." 

•  Keith  had  turned  his  eyes  again  to  the 
black,  silver-tipped  range.  Uncopsciously 
with  his  thought  was  blending  the  emotion 
of  the  Psalmist.  "  I  will  lift  up  mine  eyes 
unto  the  hills,  whence  cometh  my  help."  His 
lips  moved.  He  was  praying  that  the  life  of 
the  woman  who  had  just  left  him  might  not 
be  wasted,  but  be  fruitful  unto  good  works. 

On  the  way  home  Keith  was  very  silent. 
Dorothy  was  tired  and  was  sitting  with 
her  head  on  his  shoulder.  He  caught  her 
warm  hand  and  held  it  in  his  all  the  way. 
He  took  great  comfort  in  this  sweet,  sym- 
pathetic little  sister. 


CHAPTER    XIX. 

A  GAME  OF  POLO. 

pl^^l^  URING  the  long  autumn 
evenings  one  of  Dor- 
othy's favorite  amuse- 
ments  was  to  sit 
upstairs,  at  one  of 
the  front  windows  of 
the  house,  and  watch 
the  games  and  exercises  that  were 
usually  carried  on  in  Cartier 
Square.  Occasionally  a  foot  -  ball  match 
was  played  there,  and  people  going  past 
stopped  along  the  sidewalks  until  the  board 
fence  was  lined  with  spectators.    Very  often 


BE  lb 


74 


A   STAR   IN  A   FBI 8 ON. 


Ir  ;  i 


It  : 


L:    I 


the  red-coated  soldiers  of  the  Infantry  bat- 
talions were  brought  out  there  to  drill,  or  a 
troop  of  dragoons  would  be  put  through 
their  military  exercises.  It  \/a8  always  a 
delight  to  Dorothy  to  watch  th^  horses  as 
they  formed  In  line,  now  two  i\ breast,  now 
four,  now  six,  and  then  walked,  cantered, 
galloped,  -over  the  field. 

Especially  did  she  delight  In  watching 
the  games  of  polo  which  were  ocv^aslonally 
played  there.  There  was  something  very 
fascinating  about  the  gracefulness  of  both 
horses  and  riders,  the  swaying  bodies  of 
the  men,  the  quick  turns  of  the  cantering 
horses,  so  skillfully  managed  to  follow 
every  move  of  the  ball  that  It  seemed  as 
though  the  Intelligent  animals  went  after 
It  of  themselves.  Dorothy  would  watch 
every  maneuver  closely,  and  clap  her  hands 
whenever  a  particularly  clever  stroke  of  the 
long  polo  stick  was  made.  This  was  Keith's 
favorite  game,  and  he  often  played  It.  Per- 
haps that  was  the  reason  she  liked  It  best. 

Towards  the  end  of  October  ihls  year  a 
game  had  been  arranged  for.  Heavy  early 
•frosts  had  rendered  the  ground  hard  and 
bare,  and  it  was  In  excellent  condition  for 
this  the  last  game  of  the  season.  Keith  was 
to  take  part,  and  long  before  the  game  began 
Dorothy  was  upstairs  In  her  place  of  van- 
tage. While  waiting  she  sat  down  upon  a 
heap  o2  cushions  on  the  floor,  and  was  soon 
deeply  absorbed  In  a  book. 

Keith  came  In,  dressed  for  the  field.  She 
thought  she  had  never  seen  him  look  better. 
His  eyes  were  spb  ■•kllng  with  good  spirits 
In  anticipation  of  the  sport,  and  his  cheeks 
were  slightly  flushed.  He  lookpd  so  healthy, 
so  tall  and  strong!  She  felt  very  proud  of 
her  brother. 

He  drew  a  big  arm-chair  directly  in  front 
of  the  window  and  placed  her  In  it. 

"  Now,"  he  said,  "  sit  there  from  the  very 
beginning  to  the  very  end  of  the  game,  lit- 
tle sister.  You  know  the  knights-errant  of 
old  had  their  ladles  wave  them  on  to  vic- 
tory.   You  are  the  only  lady-love  I  have,  so 


mind,  I'll  expect  to  sfte  a  white  handkerchief 
floating  up  here  at  your  lattice  presently." 

"H'm!"  she  said,  "what  will  be  the  use? 
You'll  not  look  up  If  I  do.  You'll  never 
think  of  me  at  all!" 

"Won't  I?"  he  replied,  kissing  l?cr.  "See 
if  I  don't!  I'll  wave  to  you  in  the  very  mid- 
dle of  the  game.  Well,  good-by.  Be  good." 
And  he  was  off. 

She  watched  him  ride  his  favorite  horse, 
Macbeth,  Into  the  fleld.  Then,  after  a  few 
preliminary  pacings  to  and  fro,  the  game 
began. 

Maria  and  Elgin  streets  were  black  with 
spectators.  Dorothy,  unheeding  the  cool  air, 
threw  up  the  window  and  leaned  out.  She 
snatched  up  a  field-glass  from  tho  table 
near,  and  was  Immediately  In  the  thick  of 
the  game.  She  rould  hear  the  clanking  of  the 
horses'  feet  on  the  ground  distinctly.  The 
little  Ite  ball,  aimed  by  strong,  a  inding 
stroke:?,  flew  over  the  ground.  The  horses 
pranced  and  turned  and  curvetted.  The 
game  was  a  very  close  one,  and  the  contest 
was  growing  hotter  ev^y  mompnt.  Dor- 
othy felt  her  cheeks  flush  and  her  pulses 
throb  with  excitement. 

All  at  once  Keith  seemed  to  remember  his 
promise.  He  looked  towards  Dorothy, 
raised  his  polo  stick  and  gave  it  a  wa:ve 
over  his  head.  Tho  suddenness  of  the  move- 
ment seemed  to  startle  Macbeth.  He  reared 
madly  upward  and  plunged.  Keith  was  off 
his  guard.  He  lost  his  grip  of  the  stirrups, 
made  a  wild  effort  to  regain  them,  and  was 
t  hrr  vn  to  the  ground. 

Dorothy  uttered  never  a  sound.  Asr  If 
turned  to  stone,  with  white  face  and  terror- 
stricken  eyes,  she  still  gazed  out  of  the  win- 
dow. She  ^aw  Macbeth  dash  away  madly 
with  flying  stirrups.  She  sa\^  the  players 
leap  from  their  horses  and  gather  about  the 
prostrate  form.  She  saw  dozens  of  men  and 
boys  spring  over  the  fence  and  mingle  in 
the  increasing  knot  of  anxious  people.  Then 
she  saw  the  crowd  separate  and  sometiiing 
being  carried  slowly  across  the  field  after  a 


A   STAR   IN  A     'TiT90N. 


75 


white-faced,  batless  man,  who  was  running 
towards  the  house. 

The  pearl-cased  fleld-glnss  fell  from  her 
fingers  and  rolled  down  with  a  crash  on  the 
pavement  below.  She  moved  not,  but  stared 
on  as  before.  Then  people  began  to  look  up 
at  her,  and  to  call  one  another's  attention 
to  her  pityingly. 

A  reaction  set  She  threw  up  h( '  arms 

and  fell  back  in  the  chair  in  a  dead  faint. 
There  she  was  found,  in  blessed  uncon- 
sciousness, and  when  she  awoke  from  If 
Octavia,  strong  and  magnetic,  was  with  her, 
soothing  her  and  stroking  her  poor,  wildly- 
throbbing  head. 

"Is  he  dead?"  Dorothy  gasped,  with  white 
lips. 

"  No,"  answered  Octavia. 

"Take  me  to  him." 

"The  doctors  are  with  him.  Besides,  It 
might  harm  him  if  you  wont  to  him  now." 
Octavla's  voice  was  calm  and  reassuring. 

Dorothy  sank  back  with  a  moan. 

"  Do  they  think  Keith  will  get  Letter?" 

"  They  have  every  hope." 

Dorothy  closed  her  eyes,  and  Octavia  s 
strong,  warm  hand  folded  over  hers. 

Dorothy  was  still  so  long  that  Octavia 
fancied  she  must  have  fallen  asleep,  and  left 
her,  going  softly  on  tiptoe  over  the  thick 
rug  to  the  door. 

But  Dorothy  was  not  asleep.  Presently 
she  opened  her  eyes,  slid  from  the  couch 
and  went  quietly  out  of  the  room.  The 
house  was  strangely  silent  and  lonely.  She 
shuddered.  She  stele  past  the  door  of  her 
mother's  room  and  heard  sobs  within.  She 
pushed  it  slightly  open  and  looked  in. 
Octavia  was  bending  over  Lady  Cameron's 
bed,  and  Dorothy  turned  away  again.  She 
went  on  quickly  towards  the  room  where 
K«»ith  had  been  taken. 

At  the  door  she  met  Agnes  coming  out 
with  basin  In  her  hand  The  French  girl's 
eyes  were  red  with  weeping.  She  put  the 
basin  down,  and,  catching  up  Dorothy's 
hands,  kissed  them  over  and  over. 


"Is  he  worse,  Aguts?"  whispered  Dor- 
othy. 

"  No,  Miss  Dorothy,  no;  not  worse  dan  he 
was,"  stammered  Agnes,  but  she  looked  at 
the  other  strangely. 

Dorothy  pushed  op*^n  the  door  and  went 
In.  The  room  was  darkf>ned  by  «hades  drawn 
low  over  the  lights,  and  a  nurse  was  al- 
ready In  attendance.  Keith's  favorite  phy- 
sician, old  Dr.  Lambert,  was  standing  by  a 
table  working  with  some  bandages.  The 
girl  went  straight  on  to  the  bt  d. 

Keith  was  very,  very  white.  His  head  was 
bound  across  with  a  white  bandage,  and  tlie 
coverlet  rose  and  foU  quickly  with  his  heavy 
breathing.  He  socmed  to  be  aware  of  her 
presence  and  opened  his  eyes.  Sh^  kissed 
him  gently  and  took  his  hand  in  hers.  He 
smiled,  then  closed  his  eyes  again,  and 
Dorothy  sank  on  her  knees  beside  the  bad. 

There  she  remained  until  the  nurse  whis- 
pered in  her  ear  that  she  must  go  to  bed  and 
try  to  get  some  sleep. 

"  No,  nurse,"  she  said,  "  I  will  stay  with 
you."  And  no  entreaty  could  alter  her  de- 
cision. All  through  the  night  she  sat,  hold- 
ing Keith's  cold  hands  and  looking  at  bis 
dear,  white  face. 

Once  he  muttered  something.  She  bent 
her  ear  down  to  his  lips  to  hear.  "  At  the 
window  —  Dorothy  —  bless  her!  Take  care, 
Macbeth!    Take   ^are,  good  horse!" 

Dorothy's  head  went  down  upon  the  pil- 
low and  her  breaking  heart  found  vent  in 
sobs.  But  Keith  began  to  stir  and  she  im- 
mediately hushed  them  again.  He  opened 
his  eyes. 

"  Dorothy!     You     here?"     he    whispered. 

Oh,  yes,  I  remember,"  he  added,  with  :\ 
sigh. 

She  stroked  a  few  locks  of  waving  black 
hair  escaping  from  beneath  the  bandage 
into  place  and  kept  her  band  on  his  fore- 
head.   It  seemed  to  soothe  him. 

"  I  didn't  get  it  after  all,"  he  said,  faintly. 

"What,  Keith?" 

."The    pardon    for    young    SteinbofF,  you 


76 


A    STATi    IN  A    PETSON. 


know.  I  —  I  didn't  have  tlm«'  enouRh. 
Will  — you  — see  about  It,  Dorothy,  If  you 
can?    Don't  lot  them  delay,  will  you?" 

"  Yes,  yes!"  she  cried,  to  sntlsfy  him,  but 
with  a  cold  horror  stenling  over  her.  What 
did  he  mean  by  chnrjjlnK  her  to  see  to  this? 
Did  he  think  he  was  Rolng  to  die?  She  arose 
and  went  steadily  out  Into  the  hall,  then  she 
stagRered  Into  a  seat.  Old  Dr.  Lambert  fol- 
lowed her  and  took  her  into  his  arms,  as  a 
father  might  have  done. 

"What  does  he  mean?  Oh,  what  does  he 
mean?"  she  whispered,  wildly. 

The  good  old  man's  cheeks  were  wet  with 
tears,  and  his  arms  tightened  about  her. 

"  Dorothy,  my  dear  little  girl,  you  must 
keep  bfave  —  for  Keith's  sake!" 

She  looked  at  him  sharply.  "  Keith  is 
going  to  die?"  she  said,  turning  white  to  the 
lips.  She  had  read  in  the  doctor's  face  that 
which  he  could  not  find  words  to  tell. 

"  My  poor  dear,  it  is  better  for  you  to 
know  the  worst,"  he  said. 

"  Doctor,  tell  me  truly,  how  long  can  he 
live?" 

The  doctor  wiped  his  eyes.  "We'll  — 
we'll  —  Dorothy,  we'll  hope  to  keep  him  two 
or  three  days!" 

She  sat  straight  up  and  stared  at  him  for 
a  moment  with  wide-open  eyes.  Then  she 
rose  and  walked  steadily  back  to  the  bed- 
side. She  could  not  lose  one  moment  away 
from  him. 

Before  morning  Keith  spoke  to  her  again. 

"Dorothy?" 
J  "Yes,  dear." 

"  To-morrow  send  for  all  my  poor.  I  want 
to  see  them  all  once  more.  Doctor  says  — 
nobody— can  come  in,  but  someone  can  run 
my  bed  to  the  window— and  I'll  look  down 
at  them  all."  ^     ::;  ^ 

"Yes,  Keith!"  Dorothy  was  choking  to 
keep  back  the  tears. 

"Where  is  mother?"  he  asked. 

"  In  her  room,  Agnes  says  she  is  sleep- 
ing.   Do  you  want  to  see  her?" 

"  No,  not  now.    Don't  forget  to  go  to  her 


often,  Dorothy."  And  he  closed  his  eyes 
again. 

From  that  moment  on,  for  the  next  three 
days,  Dorothy  hardly  closed  her  eyes  in  sleep 
nor  ever  went  out  of  his  chamber  except  to 
go  up  to  her  mother's  room  occasionally. 
Her  great  eyes  grew  hollow,  and  lieavy 
black  rings  came  about  them.  Yet  she  did 
not  feel  weary.  Agnes  would  bring  her  cof- 
fee and  a  little  of  some  dainty  trifle, 
served  up  in  the  most  tempting  manner  pos- 
sible. She  would  eat  and  drink  mechanic- 
ally, then  return  to  her  vigil  again.  She  made 
no  outcry,  but  was  calm  and  self-possessed 
throughout,  only  for  the  awful  look  of  lone- 
liness on  her  face.  Dr.  Lambert  and  the 
nurse  could  have  wept  for  her  many  times 
a  day. 

Lady  Cameron  was  completely  prostrated 
by  the  shock,  and  unable  to  leave  her  bed, 
Octavla  stayed  with  her  a  great  deal  of  the 
time,  but  Dorothy  nursed  her  trouble  alone. 
To  her,  in  this  early  stage  of  her  grief,  no 
human  being  could  bring  comfort.  Her 
whole  life,  thought  and  feeling  was,  as  yet, 
bound  up  with  Keith's  flickering  torch  of 
life.  Nothing  else  in  all  the  wide  world  was 
real  to  her. 


CHAPTER    XX. 

KEITH'S   "  POOR." 

S  the  gray  dawn,  after  that 
first  fearful  night,  stole 
up  over  the  sky,  Keith 
seemed  to  grow  restless, 
and,  at  times,  half  wan- 
dering. 

"  Have    you    sent    any 
one  to  tell  them  yet?"  he 
would    ask    every    little 
while,  and  then  he  would 
turn  his  shining  eyes  toward  the  window. 

Dr.  Lambert  had  at  first  objected  to  this 
scheme  of  Keith's  for  seeing  his  poor.    He 


A  8TAR   IN  A   PRISON. 


77 


feared  that  the  excitement  might  quench  Silently  they  took  their  places  and  there 
too  soon  the  candle  which  was  bo  speedily  remained,  almost  motionless,  save  when 
burulnjf  out.  But  Keith  Insisted  so  urned  forward  by  the  crowd  that  pressed  on 
anxiously,  that  In  order  to  save  the  little  from  behind.  So  groat  was  this  crowd 
strength  he  had  left,  his  wish  was  granted,  that  those  In  front  were  pressed  upward 
and,  ere  the  sun  arose,  a 
swift  Ujiessenger  was 
speeding  on  horseback 
from  house  to  house 
among  the  flats  of  Lower 
Town.  The  people,  un- 
accustomed to  controll- 
ing their  emotions,  gave 
full  vent  to  their  grief, 
and  exclamations  of  sor- 
row, sobs  and  tears 
greeted  the  message 
given  by  the  horseman 
that  all  who  could  do  so 
were  to  meet  at  Dr. 
Cameron's  house  at  two 
o'clock  that  afternoon. 

In  the  meantime,  Keith 
was  suffering  much  pain 
from  Internal  injuries. 
His  brain  grew  clearer  as 
the  day  wore  on.  He 
kept  his  eyes  closed  most 
of  the  time,  but  he 
seemed  to  be  thinking, 
for  at  times  his  face 
grew  radiant. 

As  the  appointed  hour 
drew  nigh,  his  bed  was 
gently  roiled  to  the  win- 
dow. But  the  blind  was 
not  yet  raised. 

Octavia,  from  the  win- 
dow of  the  room  above, 
looked    down    upon    the 

strange  scene  wUhout.  A  little  before  two  upon  the  very  steps,  while  many  others  scat- 
o'clock  a  wondrous  concourse  of  people  be-  tered  at  either  side  of  the  broad  walk.  Yet 
gan  to  gather  on  the  broad  pavement  that  there  was  no  noise,  no  confusion, 
led  up  to  the  steps  of  the  Cameron  home—  Precisely  at  two  o'clock  Dr.  Lambert 
ragged  people,  lame  people,  people  with  the  stepped  out  upon  the  veranda.  Every  eye 
marks  of  vice  and  dissipation  in  their  was  on  him  in  an  instant,  and  a  hush  as  of 
countenances,  but  all  with  sorrowful  faces,     death  spread  over  the  motley  concourse. 


A  hush  spread  over  the  motley  concourse. 


78 


A  STAR   IN  A  PBISON. 


"  Friends,"  said  the  old  doctor,  with  a 
break  In  his  voice,  "  I  need  not  warn  you  to 
be  as  quiet,  as  self-contained,  as  possible. 
Any  loud  expression  of  your  grief  may  be 
harmful  to  our  — our  brother.  Watch  this 
window  and  you  may  see  him  for  a  few  mo- 
ments only*^   Now,  I  depend  upon  you." 

"Amen!"  responded  two  or  three.  And 
every  eye  was  turned  on  the  window. 

The  blind  was  drawn  up.  Every  one  could 
see  clearly  the  beloved  face  of  their  mutual 
friend  and  benefactor,  white  and  wan.  In 
the  dark  setting  of  the  window.  Keith  was 
propped  up  on  pillows,  and  was  supported 
by  an  old  college  friend,  and  by  Octavla's 
husband.  Sir  Henry  Oldbury.  Dorothy 
stood  behind,  weeping  silently. 

A  momentary  swaying  took  hold  upon  the 
people.  Uncouth  faces  changed  Instan- 
taneously. Pity,  pain,  anguish,  were  written 
on  every  countenance.  Some  nearest  the 
window  knelt  as  If  beseeching  his  blessing. 
One  woman  held  aloft  her  little  child  to  look 
at  him.  Tears  ran  down  cheeks  rarely 
visited  by  them,  and  heavy  sighs  and  sobs 
burst  from  the  woe-stricken  multitude. 

Keith  looked  over  the  faces,  as  though  he 
would  gaze  at  each  one  separately;  then  he 
smiled  and  pointed  upward.  Many  eyes 
looked  towards  the  sky  as  though  expecting 
to  see  an  angel  In  visible  form.  Groans  and 
smothered  sobs  broke  out  afresh.  But  their 
friend  was  growing  weaker.  He  smiled 
once,  and  wafted  a  kiss  from  his  fingers  to 
them.  Then  the  blind  v,eut  down  and  they 
saw  him  no  more. 

Octavla,  looking  fr<m  above,  had  been 
strangely  moved.  These  ragged  people, 
weeping  as  though  their  hearts  would 
break,  were  revealed  to  her  as  never  before. 
So  was  the  life  of  Dr.  Keith  Cameron;  and, 
in  coni^rast  with  It,  the  empty  shell  of  her 
own  rose  up  In  condemnation  of  her.  She 
understood  at  last  that  these  people  were  of 
flesh  and  blood,  and  hearts,  and  emotions, 
even  as  she,  and  that  the  power  of  Chrlsr 
.  tlan  love  had  touched  them  as  nothing  else 


could  have  done.  The  divine  beauty  of  a 
Christian  life,  a  revelation  of  the  spring 
from  whence  that  life  is  filled,  appealed  to 
her  with  wondrous  strength.  She  sank  on 
her  knees  by  the  window,  and  tears  rained 
down  her  beautiful  face. 

The  people  were  at  last  turning  to  go 
away,  when  they  were  suddenly  arrested. 
Some  one  was  speaking.  Every  eye  was 
again  turned  towards  the  house. 

Upon  the  step  beside  Dr.  Lambert  stood  a 
man,  a  little,  shrivelled  man,  with  a  few 
strands  of  thin,  white  hair  trallinf  over  the 
collar  of  his  long,  black  coat.  So  old  was 
he  that  he  looked  like  a  mummy  to  whose 
eyes  the  life  had  suddenly  returned. 

The  tall,  ruddy,  white-haired  doctor  beside 
him,  looked  at  him  In  amazement,  the  more 
so  that  this  old  man  was  leaning  on  the  arm 
of  a  young  and  frall-looklng  woman.  Not 
less  astonished  was,  at  least,  one  other  per- 
son In  that  audience,  a  young  man  who 
stood  near  the  street,  Adolphe  Belleau,  who 
wondered  greatly  what  was  about  to  htt^)- 
pen  now. 

"  Friends,  listen!"  the  old  man  was  saying 
in  a  weak  and  quavering  voice.  "  He  has 
pointed  us  upward.  Let  every  on6  of  you 
heed  his  last  entreaty  and  look  upward  to 
God.  You  see  before  you  the  last  poor  frag- 
ment of  a  wrecked  and  blasted  life — blasted 
because  It  made  no  account  of  God.  Thanks 
be  to  him,  my  eyes  are  at  last  opened,  but 
this  poor  wreck  Is  all  I  have  left  to  conse- 
crate to  my  Maker.  Our  dear  friend  In  the 
house  can  speak  to  you  no  more,  but  for  his 
sake.  If  for  nothing  else,  look  Into  this 
thing.  Begin  to  live  Chrisdan  lives  —  you 
will  not  regvet  It. 

*'  And  now,  friends,  listen  to  my  confes- 
sion. I  hove  already  confessed  in  private; 
but  I  sinned  In  secret,  and  I  want  to  pro- 
claim my  ■  fault  from  the  housetops,  chat 
others  may.  perhaps,  take  warning.  Ah,  It 
was  unbelief  that  let  me  drift  on  'nto 
the  evil  which  I  would  give  worlds  to 
undol" 


A  STAR   IN  A   PRISON. 


79 


He  paused,  and  when  he  again  spoke  the 
voice  trembled  still  more. 

"  Friends,  I  made  couoterfeit  money,  and 
when  my  crime  was  discovered  fled  from 
the  law.  My  adopted  grandson  is  in  the 
penitentiary  for  It,  though  I  knew  it  not 
until  lately.  Before  you  all,  and  before 
Heaven,  I  declare  that  I  was  the  only  one 
guilty.  Wilhelm  Steinhoflf  is  innocent.  My 
friends,  I  believed  not  In  God.  I  walked 
my  way.  Independent  of  his.  Believe  me. 
there  Is  a  God,  and  he  abhors  evil!" 

The  old  man  stopped.  He  tried  to  speak 
again,  and  hisi  lips  moved,  but  no  sound 
came  from  them.  He  dropped  his  head  on 
Gertrude's  ahoulder  and  feii  in  her  arms. 
She  gave  a  low  cry.  Dr.  Lambert  caught 
him  and  laid  him  on  the  floor  of  the  ver- 
anda. The  crowd  below  was  swayed  in 
agitation  like  the  w'aves  of  the  sea.  Dr. 
Lambert  knelt  beside  the  old  man  for  a  mo- 
ment, then  he  arose  and  said  quietly: 

"  He  is  dead." 

The  slender  cord  was  at  last  broken.  The 
heart  had  given  out  suddenly  and  pain- 
lessly, and  Hermann  Stelnhofif  had  passed 
from  earthly  scenes.  He  was  carried  into  a 
building  near  and  the  crowd  melted  away. 

No  one  within  the  Cameron  mansion  had 
seen  this  last  occurrence.  Octavia  won- 
dered what  had  hapi^vjued,  but  could  not 
see  for  the  roof  of  the  veranda.  She  learned 
it  later  from  the  lips  of  others.  But  she 
could  not  get  that  other  scene,  of  which  she 
had  been  a  witness,  out  of  her  mind.  It 
melted  her  cold  heart  as  nothing  had  ever 
been  able  to  do  before.  She  thousjht  of 
many  words  which  Dr,  Cameron  had  spoken 
to  her.  They  seemed  to  appeal  to  her  now 
with  an  almost  heavenly  force.  At  last  she 
knelt  and  prayed  as  sLo  had  never  prayed 
before.  Then  she  went  down  and  laid  her 
head  on  her  husband's  arm. 

"  Husband,"  she  said,  "  you  and  I  have 
our  lives  still.  Let  us  make  a  better  use  of 
them  while  they  are  left  to  us." 

He  did  not  understand  her  fully  then. 


A  few  days  later  Keith  Cameron  was  laid 
away  to  his  rest  in  a  pure  white  mausoleum, 
sheltered  by  a  spreading  tree.  But,  though 
he  was  gone,  his  life  lived  after  him.  In 
t!le  memory  of  It,  Lady  Cameron  was  even 
blessed  in  this  terrible  trial.  Her  proud 
spirit  was  at  last  softened.  From  that  sad 
experience  she  arose,  as  gold  refined  by  the 
fire,  a  sweeter  and  better  woman. 

Nor  did  the  ragged  multitude,  with  the 
memory  of  that  last  kiss  treasured  in  their 
bosoms,  ever  forget  Keith's  last,  mute  ser- 
mon. His  death  appealed  to  them  more 
strongly  than  his  life  had  been  able  to  do, 
and  many  began  from  that  hour  to  lead 
more  honest,  sober  and  better  lives.  Truly, 
Keith  was  triumphant  even  in  death,  for 
those  he  had  overcome  f.n  his  death  were 
more  than  those  whom  he  had  overcome 
during  many  years  of  his  life. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

WILHELM  TALKS  WITH  PIERRE  BELLEAU. 

FTER  the  visit  of  Dr. 
Keith  Cameron  to  the 
penitentiary,  Wilhelm 
was  allowed  compara- 
tive freedom,  such  as 
is  usually  granted  to 
those  whose  term  of 
Imprisonment  has  al- 
most expired,  and  It  so 
happened  hai  to  Pierre  Belleau,  whose 
term  was  almost  at  an  end,  these  liberties 
were  also  given.  Conversation  between  the 
two  was  therefore  less  restricted  than  before. 
Entering  the  chapel  early  one  morning, 
Wilhelm  found  the  Frenchman  kneeling 
before  his  own  picture  of  Gethsemane.  His 
hands  were  clasped  and  his  eyes  were  up- 
lifted toward  the  Face  above.  His  whole  at- 
titude bespoke  deer  contrition  and  Intense 
mental  agony.  Presently  he  bowed  his 
head,  then  aroso  and  wa'lkod  feebly  toward 


80 


A   STAB   IN  A   PBI80N. 


'4 


the    door    with    downcast    eyes,    glancing 
neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left. 

As  he  passed  Wilhelm,  the  young  man 
touched  him  on  the  shoulder.  He  started 
and  raised  his  sunken,  melancholy  eyes  to 
the  other's  face. 

"My  friend,"  said  Wiilielm  to  him  in 
French,  "  j'ou  are  in  trouble.  You  should  be 
happy,  when  you  are  so  soon  to  be  given 
back  to  life  again." 

Pierre  tried  to  speak,  but  his  v/oia,  were 
interrupted  by  a  hacking  cough,  that  lacked 
his  slight  frame  through  and  through. 

*'  For  you  to  go  back  to  life,"  he  said,  an- 
swering in  his  beloved  tongue,  when  he  had 
recovered  himself,  "  may  be  a  pleasure,  but 
for  me  none.  There  is  no  pleasu-e  in  life 
for  me  more.  You  — you  shall  meet  kind 
looks.  Men  will  say  of  you,  '  He  is  ini)o- 
cent;  he  has  suffered;  we  will  take  him  to 
our  hearts!'  And  the  door.s  will  fly  open  to 
you,  and  the  chair  by  the  hearth  will  be 
ready.  But  for  me  —  what  reception  is  for 
me?  They  will  shut  their  doors  in  my  face; 
they  will  say  all  that  can  be  said  of  evil  — 
♦A  convict!'  And  they  will  draw  away  from 
me  in  horror." 

He  sighed  and  coughed  feebly  again. 
"But  then,"  he  continued,  In  a  low,  quavti 
Ing  voice,  "it  will  not  be  for  long.  I  cnii 
sleep  in  the  fields,  in  the  barns,  a  poor 
tramp.  I ,  can  eat  with  the  little  Innocent 
squirrels,  who  will  not  despise  me.  I  can 
drink  from  the  forest  streams.  Then 
the  chill  winds  will  come  to  me  as  friends. 
They  will  soon,  with  cold  flngerij,  make  me 
ready  for  the  grave!" 

There  was  that  in  the  low,  patbetlc  voice 
which  touched  Wilhelm  profoundly.  "Alas!" 
lie  was  thinking,  "  what  he  says  may  be  only 
too  true.  There  is  no  room  among  men  for 
a  convict!" 

"  Come,"  he  said  aloud,  "  let  us  go  to  the 
entrance  and  sit  down  by  the  pillars.  I 
have  somethiiig  to  toll  you  that  may  make 
you  feel  differently  about  all  this." 

They  passed  together  through  the  long  cor- 


ridor, across  the  garden  and  oui  into  the 
entrance,  where  guards  were  pacing  to  and 
fro.  But  they  sat  down  together  on  a  low 
bench  and  no  one  heard  what  they  were 
saying. 

"  I  want  to  ask  you  some  questions,"  con- 
tinued Wilhelm.  "  In  fact,  had  not  this  op- 
portunity presented  itself,  I  should  have 
sent  them  to  you  by  the  chaplain.  In  the 
first  place,  have  you  any  children?" 

Pierre  turned  upon  him  a  look  full  of 
burning  Inquiry.  "  Why  do  you  ask  me  this 
question?"  he  said. 

"  Because,"  answered  Wilhelm,  "  a  lad 
named  Adolphe  Belleau  was  the  only  friend 
I  had  during  my  trial.  He,  a  little,  strange 
boy,  was  the  only  person  who  ventured  to 
speak  one  word  for  me  at  that  fearful 
time.  Since  then  he  has  not  forgotten  me. 
He  has  ever  believed  In  my  Innocence,  and 
It  is  perhaps  due  to  his  efforts  In  my  behalf 
that  I  owe  my  present  hope  of  a  speedy 
liberation.  Do  you  wonder,  then,  that  the 
name  of  Belleau  Is  one  dear  to  me?" 

Pierre  was  drinking  in  every  word 
eagerly.  "  But  the  lad!— what  of  him?  How 
old  was  he?"  he  whispered. 

Wilhelm's  mind  went  back  to  the  flushed. 
Indignant  face,  the  shrill,  boyish  tones  that 
had  cried,  "  You  all  wicked!  Heem  inno- 
cent!   Heem  so  innocent  as  you!" 

"  He  was,  I  should  say,  then  a  lad  per- 
haps fourteen  years  of  age;  a  handsome  lad, 
with  a  frank,  honest  face,  and  bright,  dark 
eves,  somewhat  like  yours." 

Pierre  shook  his  head  quickly.  "  We  used 
to  say,"  he  replied,  in  an  almost  inaudible 
voice,  "that  our  baby  resembled  his 
mother.  But  she  had  the  dark  eyes,  too. 
Yes,  her  eyes  were  dark." 

"Then  you  have  a  son?" 

Pierre  did  not  answer  for  a  moment,  then 
he  whispered,  "Yes,  Wilhelm  StelnhoflP,  I 
once  had  a  wife,  and  a  son,  and  a  daughter; 
a  home  —  it  might  have  been  a  paradise!" 

"And  you  will  go  back  to  it?"  Wilhelm 
asked  the  question  gently. 


11 


A   8  TAB    IN  A   PRISON. 


81 


Pierre's  eyes  grew  dark  with  that  melan- 
choly, wistful  look  which  was  seen  in  them 
so  often.  "  Ah,"  he  said,  "  you  would  not 
ask  me  to  do  that.  I  could  help  them  little 
now.  A  convict  father  would  be  a  disgrace 
to  them.  They  are  better,  far  better,  with- 
out me!" 

"  But  you  want  to  see  them,  do  you  not?" 
asked  Wilhelm. 

"To  see  them!"  exclaimed  Pierre,  with 
flushed  cheeks  and  burning  eyes.  "  Would  I 
not  give  the  rest  of  my  shattered  life  to  see 
them  just  once!  Have  I  not  dreamed  the 
scene  over  and  over  again!  My  wife  would 
say,  *  Pierre,  I  forgive  you!'  My  children 
would  say,  *  Poor  father!'  Ah,  it  would  be 
heaven  — heaven!    Then  I  could  die!" 

His  words  ended  in  a  fit  of  coughing,  and 
Wilhelm's  eyes  grew  dim.  How  little  it 
would  take  to  satisfy  this  almost  dying 
man!  Oh,  it  must  surely  be  brought  about 
soon,  or  not  at  all!    Poor  Pierre! 

"  I  suppose  your  wife  has  written  to  you 
here?'*  ventured  Wilhelm  presently. 

"  But  no,"  returned  the  other,  quickly. 
"They  know  not  where  '  am."  He  gazed 
out  over  the  hill-top,  where  some  children 
were  gayly  playing,  and  the  far-away  look 
was  still  in  his  eyes.  "  I  have  sometimes 
hoped  a  little,"  he  continued,  "  that  they 
would  find  out.  I  have  watched  for  a  letter 
until  my  heart  grew  sore,  but  the  letter 
never  came.  Then  I  would  think  ihey  did 
not  know  of  my  disgrace,  and  sometimes  I 
would  be  glad." 

He  stopped,  then  laid  his  hand  eagerly  on 
Wilhelm's  arm.  "Will  you  do  me  a  favor?" 
he  asked.  "When  you  are  free  you  will 
sometime  meet  this  lad,  this  little  Adolphe 
Belleau  of  whom  you  have  spoken.  Find  out 
if  he  Is  Pierre  Belleau's  son.  I  think  he  is. 
Then  you  will  learn  from  him  of  his  mother, 
of  his  sister,  the  lovely  little  Agnes.  You 
will  tell  him  nothing  of  his  old  father,  with 
his  cropped  head  and  his  prison  raiment. 
He  will  not  know  that  he  has  such  a  bad 
father.    But  you  will  write  me  and  tell  me 


of  them  all,  will  you  not?  Then  I  will  die. 
Promise  me,  will  you?"      % 

"  I  will  promise  you,"  returned  Wilhelm. 

'•Thank  you." 

Pierre  gave  a  sigh  and  dropped  his  head. 
Presently  he  said,  "  Ah,  Wilhelm  Steinhoff, 
but  there  is  one  vulture  that  picks  men's 
brains  and  fixes  its  talons  in  their  hearts, 
and  is  never  satisfied.  Yet  it  will  not  kill. 
The  pain,  the  torment,  must  last  long!  Its 
name  is  Remorse!  Young  man,  how  often 
have  1  looked  upon  your  guiltless  face  and 
envied  it!  Thank  heaven,  oh  thank  heaven 
every  day  of  your  life  for  a  clear  conscience! 
But  after  all,"  he  continued,  with  a  deep 
sigh,  "what  else  could  one  expect?  What 
he  has  sown,  that  he  must  also  reap!" 

He  turned  his  lace  full  of  agonizing  sor- 
row, awful  anguish,  towards  Wilhelm.  And 
Wilhelm  said  gently,  "  But  the  past  is  dead; 
one  can  still  live  for  the  future.  '  Blessed 
are  they  that  do  hunger  and  thirst  after 
righteousness,  for  they  shall  be  filled,'  no 
matter  what  the  past  may  have  been. 
When  God  enters  tlie  heart  even  remorse 
must  make  way  for  better,  happier  things. 
A  man  sins  in  giving  himself  up  to  despair." 

"  But  how  can  there  be  for£ivenes8  for 
me?"  returned  Pierre;  "for  me,  the  wretched 
sinner,  whose  best  years  have  been  given 
up  to  the  devil!"  The  tones  were  low  and 
passionate.  He  waited  as  though  his  life 
depended  upon  Wilhelm's  answer. 

"  Jesus  said,  '  Whoso^ver  will  may  take 
of  the  water  of  life  freely,'  "  quoted  Wil- 
helm softly.    "  He  made  no  limitations." 

He  could  say  no  more,  for  the  oaten  were 
marching  out  to  work.        ' 

It  was  not  until  long  afterwards  that  Wil- 
helm learned  the  whole  story  of  Pierre  Bel- 
leau's life;  of  how,  born  of  parents  belong- 
ing to  a  good  French  family  in  the  north 
of  France,  he  grew  up  surrounded  by  every 
care  and  comfort;  of  how  temptation  came 
and  was  yielded  to.  After  that,  it  had 
been  the  old  story  of  a  reckless,  restless 
career  downward.    He  plunged   into  dissl- 


82 


A  8  TAB   IN  A  PBISON. 


:'<  :| 


I 
J 


pation,  ran  away  across  the  sea.  fell  In  love 
with  a  pretty  French  girl  of  Quebec  and 
married  at  the  age  of  nineteen.  Then  the 
struggle  for  life  began.  Pierre  really  loved 
his  wife  and  the  two  children  who  came  to 
them,  but  he  could  make  but  little  money 
by  his  painting,  and  Hunger  often  came  in 
at  the  door.  At  last  he  had  become  desper- 
ate, and  bad  taken  to  drink  to  drown  his 
trouble.  Financial  diflBculties  thickened. 
He  fled  from  his  family,  hoping  to  find  some 
way  of  earning  money  to  give  them  food. 
Then  temptation  came  again.  Excited  by 
drink,  he  had  robbed  a  bank,  had  been  ar- 
rested under  the  name  of  Dupont,  and  been 
put  In  the  penitentiary,  where  remorse,  re- 
pentance, and  the  rude  friction  of  prison  life 
upon  a  nature  delicately  sensitive  in  many 
ways,  moulded  him  into  the  patient,  sad- 
dened, broken-hearted  man  whom  Wilhelra 
Steinhoff  had  first  beheld.  It  was  the  story 
of  many  a  blasted  life,  and  yet  !u  prison 
Pierre  Belleau  had  learned  the  first  real  les- 
sons of  his  life.  He  was  wrecked,  but  not 
wholly  lost,  since  his  heart  was  not  yet 
dead.'  ,  , 


:*•    l-'    ■ 


CHAPTER  XXII.      i 

''-•■  7',,  ■■'.-■'*• 

WILHELM  RECEIVES   A  GLAD  MESSAGE. 

T  was  Saturday 
morning,  Wilhe  na 
had  occasion  to  go 
into  the  oflSce  for 
something,  amfi 
while  waiting,  his 
glance  wandered 
over  a  newspaper 
s/ing  OB  the  table. 
A  name  in  the  death 
ti0imu  struck  tr^ 
Keltii.  Died  at  Stone- 
heuipsr  —  Elgin  Strt&et,  on  tb«  — th  inet.. 
Keith  Cameron.  M  D  son  of  tbc  late  Sir 
A4ian  Cameron,  If   h .  of  Ottawa,  Canada" 


ey<>:    "Cttr''ron, 


Wllhelm  read  and  re-read  the  passage, 
vaguely  trying  to  realize  what  it  meant. 
Keith  Cameron,  the  handsome,  strong  man, 
whose  hearty  hand  had  pressed  his,  whose 
deep  musical  voice  had  fallen  upon  his  ears 
in  that  sell-same  chamber  but  a  short'  time 
ago,  dead!    Surely  it  could  not  be  I 

He  turned  over  the  paper  and  searched 
for  a  fuller  account.  Here  it  was:  "  A  Fatal 
Accident."  Slowly  he  read  the  paragraph, 
which  gave  a  full  account  of  the  terrible 
termination  of  the  polo  game.  Yes,  It  was 
but  too  true!  Keith  Cameron,  the  benevo- 
lent, the  useful  physician,  was  no  more. 
This,  then,  was'  the  end  of  that  brilliant 
career— and  yet  not  the  end,  for  Keith  Cam- 
eron's life  had  been  one  that  could  never 
die. 

Wllhelm  read  on.  A  paragraph  below  gave 
a  full  account  of  the  strange  scene  which 
iiad  accompanied  the  gathering  of  the  poor 
at  the  Cameron  mansion  before  Keith's 
death,  and  of  Hermann  SteinhofiC's  confes- 
sion. Wilhelm's  heart  seemed  to  stand  still 
for  a  momenta  He  sat  down  in  a  chair  and 
tried  to  think.  Hermann,  too,  dead!  Her- 
mann had  confessed!  Gradually  an  under- 
standing of  the  matter  dawned  upon  him. 
He  wondered  what  had  induced  the  old  man 
to  make  this  strange,  public  statement  of  his 
guilt.  Poor  old  Hermann!  Had  he  become 
at  last  changed?  Had  his  conscience  so 
worked  upon  him  as  to  urge  him  to  this 
step,  after  all  the  years  of  silence?  But 
Wilhelm's  questions  were  unanswered. 

Slowly  and  sadly  he.  turned  away,  and 
went  back  to  some  light  task  upon  which  he 
had  been  (engaged  in  the  prison  yard.  And 
then  the  instinct  of  self-preservation  arose 
in  him.  What  effect  would  Keith's  untimely 
death  have  upon  his,  Wilhelm's,  cwn  fate? 
This  Keith  Cameron  was  the  man  who  had 
been  working  for  his  release.  W^f  this  the 
cause  of  tho  long  delay?  TT«»  hac  ut  .i  ■.-  hl^. 
ing  anxiously  for  weeks.  SufC.>^  tli«>  UvSI^m* 
would  not  now  be  gl'  n  up.  ^1  v  J2i '  ''4^> 
St^'InVjff's     confessioj      somt     v'ui     would 


A   STAB   IN  A   PBISON. 


83 


surely  see  that  justice  was  done.  It  could 
not  be  possible  that  the  cup  had  thus  been 
placed  to  his  lips  only  to  be  withdrawn 
ere  he  had  tasted  one  drop  of  its  sweet- 
ness. 

Nevertheless  he  felt  unusually  depressed, 
and  the  dull  gloom  of  the  November  day 
added  to  his  depression,  for  the  sadness  of 
approaching  winter  filters  even  through 
prison  walls.  Above,  the  sky  wrs  heavy  and 
gray;  about,  the  walls  were  dreary  and  dis- 
colored, the  more  so  because  a  light  snow 
had  fallen  during  the  night  and  still  lay, 
pure  and  white,  on  the  roofs  above,  in  glar- 
ing contrast  to  the  dinginess  about  It. 

How  very  long  it  seemed— ages  and  ages 
almost— since  Wilhelm  had  wandered  about 
at  will,  sunshine  above  and  boyish  gladness 
in  his  heart!  For  he  always  thought  of  the 
capital  as  it  had  been  in  summer.  The  old 
canal  arose  before  him,  as  he  bent  over  his 
tasl£,  glinting  along  between  its  green, 
wooded  banlis;  and  his  eye  followed  it, 
down  past  the  great  trees  of  the  southern 
parlt,  through  between  the  crowded  build- 
ings of  the  city,  under  the  bridges,  and 
down  the  last  locks  near  the  river,  w  lere. 
with  a  glimpse  of  the  low,  forest-covered 
Laurentians,  it  empties  into  the  noble 
Ottawa,  and  is  lost  in  Its  multitudinous 
waters.  Alas!  every  day  it  seemed  more 
like  a  dream,  more  like  a  sweet  memory  of 
some  fairy  scene  of  a  previous  stage  of 
existence,  in  which  friends  flitted  like 
spectres  and  a  golden-haired  maiden  was 
queen.  Wilhelm  sighed  deeply.  What  was 
Gertrude  doing?  It  was  strange  that  she 
had  not  written  to  him. 

When  the  men  formed  in  line  to  go  In  for 
the  night,  W^llholm  mechanically  stepped 
Into  his  place.  The  happy  presentiment 
that  he  was  doing  so  for  the  lost  time  never 
entered  his  mind.  As  he  passed  through  the 
great  hall  beneath  the  dome,  a  keeper 
touched  him  on  the  arm. 

"You  are  wanted  in  the  ofQce,  Mr,  St«in- 
hoff." 


Wilhelm  stepped  out  of  line  obediently. 
Then  it  dawned  upon  him  that  the  action, 
the  tone,  the  words  of  the  keeper  at  this 
time,  could  have  but  one  meaning.  Im- 
patiently he  stood  waiting,  yet  he  dared  not 
build  his  hopes  too  high.  He  watched  the 
men  running  up  the  narrow,  winding  stair- 
ways, and  caught  many  a  stealthy,  curious 
glance  from  the  shaven  multitude  swarm- 
ing about  the  dizzy  curves.  He  saw  the 
long  line  —  that  line  of  which  he  had  for  so 
many  years  been  a  member  — stand  before 
the  barred  doors,  silently  waiting.  He  saw 
the  doors  open  together  and  the  men  enter 
with  military  precision.  He  heard  the  locks 
click.  Then  the  keeper  said  "Come,"  and 
led  the  way  out  of  the  great,  bare,  dreary 
chamber. 

He  entered  the  oflioe,  that  office  with  its  " 
cheery  fire  leaping  up  in  the  grate,  just  as 
it  had  upon  that  other  day  so  long  ago.    Yet 
how  merrily  now  did  the  flames  leap  and 
dance  towards  the  roaring  chimney! 

The  warden  arose  to  meet  him  and  shook 
hands  with  him  cordially. 

"  Allow  me  to  congratulate  you,  Mr. 
Stelnhoflf,"  said  he.  "  I  have  a  pleasant  duty 
to  perform  to-day.  The  order  for  your  lib- 
eration has  come  at  last.  I  am  very  sorry  it 
has  been  delayed  so  long.  Mr.  Stelnhoff. 
this  Is  an  event  unpn  edentedjn  our  Insti- 
tution. You  are  discharged  with  honor. 
Not  a  stain  will  go  with  you,  for  your  inno- 
cence has  been  conclusively  proved." 

The  warden  laid  his  hand  upon  the  young 
man's  shoulder  kindly.  "  Heaven  knows." 
he  continued,  "I  wish  you  had  been  out  of 
this  long  ago.  You  have  borne  the  injustice 
well."  .:     .■ 

Wilhelm  had  nov  spoken.  Although  he 
had  been  expecting  this  he  could  scai-oely 
realize  that  it  had  come  at  last.  He  sat 
down  upon  a  chair  and  for  a  moment  trem- 
bled. He  could  grpsp  nothing  except  that 
he  was  free,  free,  freel  Tears  of  thankful- 
ness and  joy  ran  down  his  cheeks.  The 
clerk  pretended  to  write,  while  the  warden 


84 


A  STAB   IN  A   FBI  SON, 


walked  to  the  window  and  rubbed  his  eyes 
suspiciously. 

Then  the  necessary  entries  were  made  in 
the  prison  book,  and,  after  a  few  more  pre- 
liminaries, the  clerk  handed  to  Wilhelm  two 
letters.  One  bore  Gerti-ude's  fine,  peculiar 
handwriting.  In  his  haste  to  opeji  it,  he 
scarcely  noticed  that  the  seal  had  not  been 
broken  by  the  prison  officials. 

"Dear  Wilhelm!"  Yes,  Gertrude's  own 
fingers  had  traced  the  words.  He  read  on. 
Every  word  of  the  letter  seemed  like  an 
echo  of  her  voice,  her  old,  gentle  voice.  So 
engrossed  was  he  that  he  did  not  notice  that 
the  clerk  and  the  warden  had  both,  with 
delicate  consideration,  left  the  room. 

"  How  heartless  you  must  have  thought 
me,  Wilhelm!"  it  ran.  "But  oh,  Wilhelm, 
we  never  knew  until  lately  what  had  hap- 
pened to  you.  Had  I  known  you  were  in 
that  dreadful  penitentiary,  I  do  not  think 
the  earth  itself  would  have  been  sufficient 
to  keep  me  from  you!  We  never  heard  a 
word  of  news  away  up  on  that  little  island, 
and  I  murmured  over  the  loneliness  of  it!— 
the  beautiful,  free  island,  while  you— -oh, 
Wilhelm,  I  cannot  bear  to  think  of  it!  Poor 
oKi  grandfather!  How  I  wish  you  could 
have  seen  him  before  he  died!  But  now, 
not  a  word  more  until  you  are  with  us. 
Dorothy  and  I  are  planning  to  weary  you 
with  talk  when  we  get  you  here." 

In, the  second  envelope  vras  a  polite  little 
note  from  Dorothy  Cameron  and  her  mother, 
requesting  Mr.  Steluhoff  to  make  a  visit  to 
their  home,  where  Gertrude  was  staying, 
at  as  early  a  date  as  possible. 

So  absorbed  was  Wilhelm  in  his  letters 
that  he  did  not  notice  someone  had 
entered.  A  tall  man,  dressed  in  a  long, 
black,  clergyman's  core,  was  standing 
silently  near.  Two  gentle  eyes  w  ire  look- 
ing down  upon  Wilhelm,  filled  with  rejoic- 
ing for  his  deliverance,  and  the  giowlng  fire 
shone  upon  a  saint-like  face  framed  In  with 
long  gray  hair,  now  falling  in  waves  almiit 
the  face,  until  It  seemed  like  a  rare  old  pic- 


ture suddenly  endowed  with  life.  It  was 
the  chaplain. 

Wilhelm  looked  up. 

"My  boy,  my  boy,  thank  God  for  this!" 
said  the  chaplain,  fervently. 

That  was  all.  Then  hand  clasped  hand  In 
that  close,  warm  grasp  which  denotes  the 
friendship  stronger  than  death. 

"You  will  leave  to-night?"  asked  the  chai> 
lain  at  length. 

Upon  the  impulse  of  the  moment  Wilhelm 
would  liave  answered  "Yes,"  but  he  thought 
of  the  poor,  loveless  creatures  he  had  known 
so  long.  He  could  not  leave  without  seeing 
them  again.  If  he  could  but  speak  to  them 
once  and  bid  them  farewell; 

"  This  Is  Saturday  evening,"  he  said, 
slowly.  "  Do  you  think  the  warden  will 
permit  me  to  see  the  men  In  the  chapel  lu 
the  mornii.g,  and  to  speak  to  them  for  a 
moment?" 

"  I  am  sure,"  the  chaplain  replied,  quietly, 
"  that  the  favor  will  not  be  refused  to  Mr. 
Stelnhoff.  I  will  take  your  request  to  the 
warden." 

He  did  so,  and  received  a  ready  assent. 
That  night  Wilhelm  did  not  sleep  in  his  cell. 
He  was  taken  to  the  warden's  house.  No 
one  could  do  enough  for  the  man  who  had 
been  wronged,  and  had  suffered  so  bravely 
and  patiently. 

How  very  strange  It  seemed  to  tread  once 
more  upon  soft,  carpeted  floors,  to  sit  upon 
cushioned  seats,  and,  above  all,  to  take  part 
in  the  free,  unrestricted  conversation  of  a 
family  circle!  At  times  he  was  almost 
afraid  of  the  sound  of  his  own  voice,  and, 
unconsciovaly, 'spoke  almost  in  a  wl^teiper. 

Then  the  dainty  bed-room  to  which  he  was 
shown!  The  soft  bed,  with  its  fine,  snowy 
linen—what  a  marvellous  thing  it  seemed! 
He  almost  hated  to  get  Into  it  for  fear  of 
rumpling  it.  This  wps  surely  unusual  lux- 
ury! Wiiihetea  looiied  at  everj'taiag  with  an 
almcM»t  elUM-llke  interest,  and,  indeed,  as 
ye^  he  was  but  a  child  again  to  the  things 
of  the  world. 


A   STAJt   IN  A   FBI  SON. 


85 


In  the  nJght  he  awoke.  The  wind  was 
howling  about  the  house.  What  did  that 
mean?  He  had  never  been  able  to  hear  the 
wind  in  his  tomb-like  prison  cell.  He 
stretched  out  his  hand  and  it  touched  a  vel- 
vet cushion.  He  was  so  startled  that  he  sat 
up  in  bed.  Then  he  remembered  where  he 
was,  and  lay  down  again  with  a  sigh  of 
contentment. 

In  the  morning,  accompanied  by  the  genial 
warden,  he  passed  once  more  under  the 
great,  white  pillars,  through  the  iron  gate 
and  down  the  gravelled  walk  to  the  peni- 
tentiary building.  The  guards  saluted,  as 
they  advanced;  the  warden  talked  fa- 
miliarly all  the  way.  It  was  all  very 
strange  and  unreal. 

As  they  entered  the  corridor  Pierre  Bel- 
leau  crossed  the  hall  below.  He,  too,  was 
dressed  in  civilian's  clothes. 

"  Dupont— or  Belleau,  I  believe  his  name 
Is— has  been  discharged  to-day,"  remarked 
the  warden. 

"  Indeed!"  Wllhelm  stepped  aside  to 
offer  congratulations  to  the  Frenchman.  But 
no  smile  entered  the  sad  eyes. 

"Where  are  you  going,  Pierre?"  asked 
Wllhelm. 

The  other  shook  his  head.  "  It  not  mat- 
ter," he  said,  in  his  broken  English;  "  dore  is 
no  room  anyw'ere  for  a  convict.  Well," 
bitterly,  "w'at  a  mHn  sows  lif>  nius'  reap, 
affer  all,  so  he  mus'  jiot  up  wit'  it  de  Ijhs' 
he  can." 

"Wait  until  to-morrow  and  fome  with  me 
to  the  capital,"  urged  Williitllil;  then,  in  a 
lower  tone,  "  We  may  get  trace  of  Adolphe 
there  you  know." 

The  sallow  face  brightened.  Pierre  hesi- 
tated a  moment,  then  said,  "  I  will  go,  if  — 
if  you  t'lnk  it  no  disgrace  to  travel  wit'  me." 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Wilhelm  heartily, 
as  he  passed  on. 

A  fit  of  coughing  seized  the  French- 
man as  they  left  him.  The  warden  looked 
back  at  him  anxiously.  "  I'm  afraid  the 
poor  felkjw  is  not  very  long  for  this  world," 


he  said.  "If  he  goes  with  you  to  the  city, 
I  wish  you'd  sort  of  look  after  him  for  a 
while." 

"I  will,"  returned  Wilhelm.  He  <}id  not 
need  this  reminder. 

They  were  now  descending  the  narrow 
stair,  and  once  more  he  entered  the  chapel. 
But  under  how  different  circumstances! 
This  time  he  did  not  sit,  with  folded  arms, 
on  a  bench  below.  He  was  given  a  seat 
upon  the  platform,  near  the  desk,  and 
beside  him  sat  the  warden.  Every  eye  In 
the  room  was  fixed  upon  him.  The  pris- 
oners looked  at  him  enviously  yet  tliank- 
fuliy.  They  rejoiced  in  the  good  fortune  of 
this  man,  whom,  in  some  strange  way,  they 
had  learned  to  love,  despite  tne  restrictions 
of  prison  disr'pUno  It  was  a  plen  re  to 
them  to  liuik  at  his  magnificent  physique, 
now  'iuwn  to  full  n<1  vantage  by  the  ne«t 
suit  of  black  wliioh  had  been  substituted 
for  his  gray  prison  suit  with  its  odio«s 
number;  to  look  into  his  frank,  handsome 
countenance,  and  to  feel  that  this  man, 
though  Innocent,  cared  for  them  and  looked 
upon  tluMu  as  brothers. 

Wilhelm  looked  over  the  shaven  multitude, 
the  gray-clad  creatures  whom  he  had^  ki'own 
so  long,  with  here  and  there  one  clothed  in 
the  hideous  checked  apparel  that  denoted 
the  incorrigible.  With  wlmt  emotions  did  he 
fflze  into  those  faces,  feeling  that  he  would 
give  life  Itself,  even  at  this  moment  of  free- 
dom, to  be  able  to  raise  them,  one  and  all,  to 
a  Mseful  and  happy  lisanl'ood;  tliose  faces, 
some  dull,  with  but  half-awakened  faculties 
or  with  the  monotony  of  long,  changeless 
years;  some  sl)firp,  shrewd  and  intellectual; 
faces,  some  marked  by  lives  of  willful  wick- 
edness, others  by  the  weakness  of  character 
that  falls  almost  at  tii<^'  first  provocation; 
faces,  some  patient  with  hopeless  waiting, 
some  sullen,  bitter,  hardened  and  resentful; 
yet  all,  this  morning,  brightened  hy  a  stir  of 
interest,  and  with  an  expression  of  friendli- 
ness in  the  look  which  they  bestowed  upon 
Wilhelm.    Little  wonder  was  It  that  tears 


86 


A  STAB  IN  A  PRISON. 


came  Into  the  young  man's  eyes,  not  be- 
cause of  the  weary  penalty  which  these 
men  had  Incurred  and  probably  well  de- 
served,^ but  because  of  what  they  them- 
selves were. 

From  the  very  beginning  of  the  service 
there  was  an  unusual  impresaiveness  in  the 
air.  Every  one  felt  it.  Chaplain  Hare  was 
very  unconventional  in  his  order  of  worship. 
After  the  opening  prayer,  he  said,  "Would 
any  one  like  to  begin  a  hymn?" 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  then  a 
voice  at  the  end  of  a  seat  began  to  sing. 
One  by  one  the  others  joined  in  a  low, 
plaintive,  melancholy  strain.  The  words 
were  those  written  by  a  convict: 

"  Sowing  the  tares  under  cover  of  night, 
"Which  might  have  been  wheat  all  golden  and 

bright. 
Oh,  heart,  turn  to  God,  with  repentance  and 

pray'r. 
And    plead    for    forgiveness    for    sowing    the 

tares." 

It  was  a  sad,  wild  cry  of  remorse,  and  so 
it  sounded  from  these  cowering  criminals. 
Wllhelm  did  not  sing.  When  the  hymn  was 
over,  his  fine,  deep  voice  arose: 

"  Far  off  thou  hast  wandered; 
Wilt  thou  further  roam? 
Come,  and  all  is  pardoned. 
My  son!    My  son! 

*•  Thou  art  friendless,  homeless, 
Hopeless  and  undone; 
Mine  is  love  unchanging, 
My  son'    My  son! 

"JjVelcome,   wand'rer,   welcome! 
"  Welcome  hnclt  to  ho    e! 
Thou  hast  wandef^d  lur  away, 
Come  home'    Come  home!" 

**%*  voices  ranf  out,  /<t^rong<vr  and  clearer, 
until  the  tone,  in  the  chr»p«8,  was  almost 
hopeful.  The  chaplain  pr*iiehed  from  the 
text,  "  There  remainetb  Llierefore  a  re« 
unto  the  people  of  God,"  and  never  had  he 
spoken  witfc  more  fervor,  with  more  poww, 
beckoning    -a,  wt*ii   earnest,   loving  w<m^s. 


these  poor  restless  ones  towards  the  rest, 
the  green  pastures  by  the  still  waters,  that 
are  ever  ready  for  those  who  will  come 
close  to  God. 

The  men  listened  attentively,  as  they  al- 
ways did  to  this  gentle,  saint-like  man,  who 
never  reproved,  but  ever,  with  the  word  and 
touch  of  love,  walked  side  by  side  with 
them,  leading  them  onward  to  hope  and 
manhood. 

Then  Wllhelm  arose.  A  perfect  hush 
settled  upon  the  room.  Breathlessly  the 
men  listened  to  hear  what  he  would  say. 

He  laid  his  hand  upon  the  desk  and  stood 
for  a  moment  silently  looking  from  face  to 
face.  Each  man  felt  that  he  was  about  to 
speak  to  him  personally. 

"  Dear  friends,"  he  said,  with  a  break  in 
his  voice,  "  I  want  to  bid  you  all  good-by.  I 
would  like  to  grasp  each  one  of  you  by  the 
hand  to  bid  you  God-speed.  Dear  fellow- 
prisoners,  let  me  leave  with  you  a  few 
words.  Perhaps  you  may  think  of  them 
when  I  have  gone.  Some  of  you  are  terribly 
discouraged.  You  feel  that  there  is  no  hope 
for  you,  no  use  of  your  ever  trying  to  be 
better."  He  paused  and  looked  searchlngly 
at  them.  "  Friends,"  he  continued,  "  in  a 
way  I  know  the  most  of  you  well.  I  know 
your  faces,  I  have  learned  to  read  your 
minds.  I  believe  there  Is  much  good  In  the 
heart  of  each  one  of  you.  God  does  not 
make  man  without  putting  in  him  a  spark  of 
the  divine  nature.  Dear  brothers,  the  best  we 
can  do  is  to  keep  that  spark  burning  ever 
brighter  and  clearer.  With  God's  help  we 
can  all  do  this.  We  niny  keep  close  to  Jesus. 
A  spirit-union  with  him  Is  possible.  If  it 
were  not  so,  he  would  not  have  said,  '  Abide 
in  me,  and  I  In  you.'  Jesus  always  meant 
what  he  said.  Even  in  this  prison  you  may 
have  Jesus  with  you.  He  will  brighten  it 
ft>r  you  as"  — he  paused  again,  and  added 
in  a  low  voice  — "as  he  has  brightened  it 
for  me.  In  this  prison  I  have  come  cloH«r 
to  him  thau  ever  before.  His  presence 
brought  me  Joy  — yes,  even  joy.    And  such 


A  STAB   IK  A   PBISON. 


87 


an  expeiiance  waits  for  each  one  of  yon,  If 
you  will  but  come  close  enough  to  him.  He 
Is  here  In  our  midst,  as  loving,  as  real,  as  he 
ever  was  to  the  disciples  of  old.  And  now, 
dear  friends,  good-by.  I  may  never  see  some 
of  you  again  on  this  earth.  God  grant  we 
may  meet  beyond." 

He  pointed  upward  as  be  spoke,  and  hard 
hear+s  were  wondrously  moved  and  shaven 
heads  were  bowed. 

Upon  that  afternoon  Wilhelm  waildered 
out  into  the  streets,  up  by  the  heavy,  gray 
forts,  down  by  the  rolling  water,  with 
Wolfe's  Island  lying,  a  long,  low  line  of  dun- 
colored  forest,  upon  the  opposite  side.  He 
met  men  and  women  and  little  children, 
and  looked  curiously  into  their  faces.  Their 
slightest  actions  were  to  him  Invested  with 
an  intense  Interest.  No  one  recognized  him, 
though  many  glarced  at  him  a  second  time, 
wondering  who  the  handsome  stranger 
might  be.  Everything  was  wonderful,  won- 
derful! 

In  the  evening  he  went  to  church.  It 
seemed  very  strange  to  sit  in  such  a  place 
once  more,  looking  into  contented  faces, 
listening  to  the  deep  tones  of  the  organ  and 
the  singing  of  the  choir.  It  seemed  like 
being  on  the  <^iUskirts  of  heaven. 

That  uight  he  slept  at  a  hotel.  Next 
morning,  long  before  daybreak,  he  awoke. 
Ere  night  should  again  fall  he  would  be  in 
the  capital.  He  wondered  if  people  would 
receive  him  at  all,  or  if  he  would  be  an  out- 
cast from  society  because  he  had  worn  the 
prison  gray.  He  half  dreaded  to  go  back 
among  those  whom  he  had  once  known. 
Yet  Gertrude  wai  there.  What  mattered  it 
If  all  the  world  looked  coldly  upon  him,  so 
long  as  she  was  his  friend!  Then  what 
should  he  doV  Would  any  one  trust  him 
now,  all  innocent  though  he  had  been 
proved,  enough  to  give  him  a  situation 
whereby  he  might  make  his  living?  or 
would  the  stigma  of  the  penitentiary  still 
cling  to  him  in  any  way?  Well,  if  all  else 
fulled,  he  would  go  out  into  the  western 


w'lds  of  the  great  Dominion,  where  many, 
not  more  deserving  than  he,  had  already 
found  homes.  So  he  tossed  and  turned  and 
pondered,  and  wondered  when  the  day 
would  come. 

At  last  the  gray  light  came  creeping  In. 
Then  footsteps  began  to  echo-  in  the  halls. 
He  arose  and  went  downstairs.  He  drew 
out  his  gold  watch,  which  had  been  kept  for 
him.  It  was  Just  seven  o'clock.  In  one 
hour  he  would  be  aboard  the  train.  He  sat 
down  at  the  breakfast  table,  and  looked 
admiringly  at  the  white  cloth  and  the  cen- 
ter-piece of  scarlet  geraniums.  This  was 
surely  unusual  style  for  hotels.  He  was 
great^  surprised,  at  first,  when  one  of  the 
wait«ns  came  politely  to  wait  upon  him, 
—  upon  him,  the  convict,  who  had  for  so 
long  eaten  from  a  deep  tin  dish* In  a  soli- 
tary cell! 

Gradually  the  usages  of  civilized  life 
came  back  to  him  and  he  ceased  to  marveK 
He  looked  at  his  watch  and  saw  that  it  was 
almost  train  time.  Then  he  hurried  to  the 
station.  Yes,  there  was  the  slight  figure,  in 
the  long  black  coat.  Ear'y  as  it  was,  the 
chaplain  had  come  down  to  say  good-by. 
With  him  was  Pierre  Belleau. 

"I  have  bought  him  a  first-class  ticket," 
whlspcrod  the  chaplajln,  referring  to  Pierre; 
and  Wilhelm  smiled  as  he  laid  his  hand 
upon  the  Frenchman's  arm. 

The  engine  puffed.  '*  All  aboard!"  sounded 
along  the  platform. 

"God  bless  you,  lads!  Write  to  me  soon!" 
said  the  chaplain.  And,  with  a  hearty  good- 
by,  the  two  convicts  stepped  aboard  the 
train  and  started  off  on  their  way  to  the 
capital. 

For  a  time  both  were  silent.  Wilhelm  was 
wondering  what  reception  was  ahead  of 
h'm;  if  Gertrude  would  be  very  glad  to  see 
him;  if  she  would  be  very  much  changed. 
Pierre  was  thinking  of  his  family.  At  last 
he  said,  In  the  broken  English  which  he 
sometimes  used  instead  of  his  native 
language,  and  in  a  low,  timid  voice: 


w 


88 


A   STAB   IN  A   PBISON. 


"I  t'lnk  mebbe  It  not  bes'  for  dem,  my 
chll'ren,  to  meet  a  fader  from  de  peniten- 
tiary. Doy  do  better  wit'out  me  now,  do 
you  not  t'lnk  so?" 

"I  tlilnk,"  returned  Wllhelm,  "that  you 
should  at  least  let  them  know  of  your  ex- 
istence. If  Adolphe  Belleau  is  the  same 
Ind  that  I  remember,  I  imagine  he  will  want 
lu  see  his  father." 

Pierre  shook  his  head.  "  But  mebbe  I 
mak'  heem  as^  nme'.  Ah!"  plaintively,  "no 
wan  want  to  tak'  Pierre  In  now!  Dere's 
not'lng  lef  for  heem  but  to  die!  Dere's  no 
hope  in  freedom  for  heem  mce!  Better 
heem  die  in  de  penitentiary!" 

Wllhelm  turned  to  him.  "  See  here, 
Pierre,"  he  said,  "there's  no  use  of  giving 
up  like  this.  You  really  want  to  see  your 
children  again,  do  you  not?" 

"See  dem!"  The  Frenchman's  eyes  filled 
with  an  intense  Are  of  longing,  and  a  hectic 
flame  burned  on  his  cheek.  "Heaven  only 
know  how  I  long  to  see  dem— my  baby,  an* 
de  wife,  an'  de  leetle  girl!  How  I  have  lie 
on  my  bed  in  de  night,  weeping  because  T 
was  lef  dem,  an'  went  down.,  down  till  I 
have  shame  to  go  back  to  dem  more.  An' 
den  de  penitentiary  was  come.  I  could  not 
go  back.  I  mak'  in  my  mln'  'levere  to  write 
to  tell  dem  de  disgrace.  But  oh,  de  tor- 
ture! De  anguish  of  it!  Now,  I  t'ink  if  I 
see  dem  jus'  wan  time  more,  hear  dem  say 
dey  forgive,  den  I  die!" 

Wllhelm  put  his  hand  on  the  other's 
shoulder.  "  Belleau,"  he  said,  "  to  this  lad, 
who  may  be  your  son.  I  owe  a  debt  of  grati- 
tude which  I  can  never  repay.  For  my  own 
sake  I  shall  find  him.  I  shall  tell  him  of  you. 
If  I  am  not  mistaken  in  the  honest  face  I  re- 
member so  well,  he  will  then  come  to  you  of 
his  own  free  will.  In  the  meantime,  keep 
me  informed  of  all  that  you  do.  I  want  to 
be  your  friend,  Pierre  Belleau." 

The  Frenchman  looked  at  him  with  the 
old  wistful,  envious  expression  in  his  sunken 
eyes. 

"  But  you,"  he  replied.  "  are  too  <,good  to 


be  friend  for  wan  so  weecked.  Tou  n<»vore 
do  de  sin  wat  mak'  earth  all  black,  evil— no, 
nevere!" 

Then,  dropping  into  hl?«  own  language,  he 
confessed.    So  the  train  sped  on. 

Meantime,  in  a  comfortable  flat  of  rooms, 
on  one  of  the  cheeriest  streets  of  the  capital, 
a  cozy  home  was  being  fitted  up,  into  which 
—though  all  unknown  to  Agnes  and  Adolphe 
as  to  I'ierre  Belleau  —  the  poor  convict 
was  ere  long  to  creep,  broken,  feeble,  yet 
happier,  in  his  children's  love,  than  he  had 
ever  hoped  to  be  in  this  world.  For  Adolphe 
Belleau  was  prospering,  and  he  aud  Agnes 
were  once  more  beginning  housekeeping 
together. 

The  carpets  were  down,  the  simple  furni- 
ture arranged,  the  white  curtains  looped 
back  and  the  walls  decorated  with  Agnes' 
paintings.  Above  the  mantel  was  the 
sweet,  sad  face  of  the  woman  whom  Agnes 
so  often  saw  In  her  visions.  Dorothy  had 
dropped  in  to  see  how  matters  were  pro- 
gressing, and  had  pronounced  everything 
perfect. 

Moreover,  this  was  a  proud  day  for  the 
brother  aud  sister.  Upon  another  wall,  that 
of  the  National  Art  Galh  ry,  at  an  exhi- 
bition then  being  held,  hung  a  picture 
painted  by  Mademoiselle  Agnes  Belleau. 
Adolphe  thought  it  a  marvel.  Others 
stopped  to  look  admiringly  at  it,  perhaps 
recognizing  the  mild,  thoughtful  face  which 
it  portrayed.  For  Agnes  had  realized  her 
dream  of  long  ago.  She  had  painted  "wan 
picture,  very  large,  very  beautiful."  It  rep- 
resented "de  Queen  of  Heaven,"  and  the 
face  was  that  of  Mademoiselle  Cameron. 


CHAPTER     XXIII. 
AT  LAST  UNITED. 

IN  one  of  the  coziest  rooms  of  the  Cameron 
home,  upon  a  heavy  couch  of  crimson 
velvet,   reclined  a  young  woman,   upon 
whose  cheeks  a  faint  flush  was  wavering, 


A   STAB   IN  A    PRISON. 


89 


and  nhout  whose  sad.  sweet  llpe  a  hovering 
smile  (X'C'usionally  settled.  She  was  dressed 
all  In  black,  but  the  firelight  'wcnme,  now 
and  then  tangled  In  her  lair,  which  formed 
a  bright  hah   about  her  race. 

She  was  gazing  into  the  depths  of  the 
coals  that  kept  falling  from  tht»  rrnckUng 
oak  log  above.  What  she  saw  in  them  she 
never  hns  told,  but  the  visions  were  surely 
pleasant.  The  end  of  It  all  was  thnl  she 
dropped  asleep,  with  her  head  on  the  great 
cushion. 

Presently  a  gentle  touch  fell  upon  hef 
arm,  and  she  arose.  The  night  wind  v  as 
blowing  over  a  bleak  plain  that  had  ueither 
tree  nor  boundary,  but  the  dark,  misty 
sky  met  the  dark,  mistj  earth  upon  all 
sides.  The  moon  shone  fltfylly  above,  and 
the  plain  that  lit-r  feet  must  tread  was  all 
ashes  and  yielding;  sand. 

No  word  was  spoken,  but  she  followed  her 
guide  silently,  and  It  seemed  that  she  had 
known  him  before.  He  was  old  and  bent 
and  the  moonlight  r«^^vealed  faintly  his  black 
cap,  his  long  black  coat  and  the  thih  gray 
locks  streaming  over  his  shoulders.  He 
went  ever  on  and  on.  She  could  not  hea 
his  footsteps,  and  her  own  feet  sank  piti- 
fully into  the  ashes,  but  sue  dared  not  stop. 

"Whither  goest  thou?"  she  asked. 

He. would  not  answer,  but  glided  on  before 
her  like  a  sh^de  of  the  night,  And  the  wind 
was  chill. 

They  came  to  a  river,  broad  and  black 
and  deep  and  silent. 

"  Carry  me!    Carry  me!"  she  cried. 

He  answered,  "  Come,"  and  went  on  over 
the  black  flood. 

She  must  press  forward  alone.  She 
plunged  into  the  dark  depths.  Arms,  strong 
as  steel,  bore  her  aloft.  She  raised  her  eyes 
and  saw  that  the  one  who  bore  her  wore 
the  garb  of  a  convict.  Then  a  light  shoiie 
from  the  clouds  above,  and,  looking  up,  she 
saw  Keith  Cameron  smiling  upon  her. 
Whenever  he  smiled  the  light  shone  more 
brightly. 


Then  a  V'>ice  soundid  about,  above,  below, 
•  filling  the  wliole  air:    "  It  Is  well." 

She  awoke  with  a  start,  and  Dorothy 
Cameron  was  there  on  !ier  knees  l>*  side  her. 

"  Gertrude,  dear."  she  said,  "  your  brother 
Nas  come;"  and  she  laid  her  brown  curly 
head  upon  tlie  soft  cushion  and  wept.  Poor 
Dorothy!  The  gates  of  death  alone  would 
restore  to  her  her  brother! 

Gertrude  threw  her  arms  about  the  kneel- 
ing form  and  kissed  her  tear-stained  cheek. 

Then  she  went,  with  throbbing;  heart, 
down  the  broad  stairway.  At  the  doorway 
sheJiesitated  a  moment.  A  strange  emotion, 
akin  *o  dread,  stayed  het  hand  on  the  folds 
of  the  curtain.  Then  she  drew  it  back  and 
stood  for  a  moment  beneath  the  crimson 
dr  pery.  Surely  this  tould  not  be  Wilhelra! 
This  broad-shouldered  man,  with  t\w  deep, 
calm  face,  was  not  the  Wiihelm  she  r*  mem- 
bered  — the  youth  with  slight  f^irm  and 
boyish  faee.  Then  lie  smiled  and  reached 
bis  hands  to  her,  and  she  knew  him. 

But  he,  looking  upon  the  slight,  black- 
robed  tigure,  the  fluslied  face,  the  gol  'en 
tiair,  saw  again  the  same  Gertrude  of  his 
dreams;  Gertrude's  old  self,  a  little  sad- 
dened, perhaps,  a  little  ripened  by  long 
experience.  The  same  blue  eyes  looked 
back  into  his;  the  same  pretty  gestures  were 
not  forgotten,  for.  In  the  old  way,  she  sat 
down  beside  him,  and  with  her  tiny  hands 
threw  back  her  hair  from  her  face,  just  as 
she  used  to  do.  Then  she  did  something 
that  he  had  very  seldom,  in  the  old  days, 
seen  her  do-she  burst  into  tears.  But  they 
were  tears  mingled  with  joy. 

There  was  little  need  for  words,  for  each 
understood  the  other  now.  Yet,  after  a 
time,  all  must  be  told,  and  ere  the  shades  of 
evening  gathered,  Wiihelm  had  followed 
Gertrude  through  hex  exile,  and  Gertrude 
had  suffered  and  rejoiced  with  Wiihelm  in 
his  imprisonment.  So  heart  was  at  last 
bound  to  heart,  and  each  knew  that  separ- 
ation would  never  come  more.  Then  night 
fell. 


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33  WIST  MAIN  STREET 

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90 


A   STAR   IN  A  PBISOir. 


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In  honor  of  Wllhelm's  return,  the  house 
Is  alight  for  the  tirst  time  since  Keith  went, 
away.  The  silll.  shut-up  rooms  are  cnoe 
more  thrown  open,  and  flowers,  gay  with 
pink  bloom,  are  on  mantel  and  shelf,  driv- 
ing out  the  remembrance  of  the  lingering 
odor  of  white  rose  and  lily  and  hyacinth 
burdened  with  perfume  —  those  sad,  sweet 
fragrances  of  death. 

And  Is  the  noble  young  master  himself 
absent  from  this  scene  of  rejoicing?  Can 
he  nevermore  revisit  this  dear  spot  which 
he  has  loved?  Mayhap  it  is  his  spirit  that 
enters  by  yon  *ialf-open  door,  that  s^ays 
yon  gently  waving  curtain.  If  so,  there  is 
surely  a  smile  on  his  spirit-lips,  for  one  of 
earth's  "  poor,"  a  little,  desolate  boy,  now 
grown  into  uoble  manhood,  is  sitting  at 
his  hearth.  Misty  fingers  may  point  to 
this  man,  and  shadowy  lips  may  murmur 
as  if  on  the  breath  of  a  south  wind,  *'  Ad 
astra  per  aspera,"  as,  with  clearer  eyes, 
now  gifted  with  super-mortal  vision,  the 
friend  of  the  poor  looks  down  upon  thou- 
sands of  earth's  human  atoms,  crawling 
over  the  hills  and  brambles,  all  unseeing  the 
stars  that  glimmer,  faintly  yet  surely,  at 
the  end  of  the  diflilcult  way. 

Courage,  brothers!  Courage,  toiling  ones! 
The  knees  are  sore,  and  the  feet  are  weary. 
The  head  droops,  and  the  hands  toil.  The 
way  may  be  red  with  drops  of  the  heart's 
blood.  But.  at  every  inch  mastered,  the  star 
grows  brighter  and  shines  more  gloriously 
along,  the  way  and  upon  the  face  of  the  tired 
traveler.  See  it  growing  radiant  and  more 
radiant!  The  toiling  one  reaches  It  and  Is 
transfigured  before  it.  Creeping  painfully 
no  longer,  he  enters  it  and  he  and  the  light 
become  one.  It  Is  no  longer  a  star,  but  a 
glorified  human  being,  shining  as  the  sun. 
The  name  or  the  star  is  '*  Perfected  Char- 
acter," and  behind  it  is  God. 

Human  beings,  wist  ye  not  that  as  ye  toll 
upward  ye  shine?  Know  ye  not  that  thrcufj'h 
struggle  ye  become  strong?  Why,  then,  do 
ye  fry  ail  for  flower-strewn  ways  and  balmy 


airs  and  soft  arbors  wherein  ye  may  indulge 
In  the  death-like  sleep  of  indolence?  If  ye 
loiter,  ye  stagnate;  if  ye  stand  still,  ye  die. 


CHAPTER     XXIV. 

A  CHANGED  PICTURE. 

PON  his  arrival  in  the 
city,  Pierre  Belleau 
sought  out  the  hum- 
blest, most  obscure  of 
boarding-houses. 

"It  Is  good  enough 
for  a  con  vie',"  he  said. 
In  the  meantime  Wllhelm  obtained  from 
Dorothy  Cameron  the  number  of  the  flat 
occupied  by  Adolphe  and  Agnes,  and,  at  un 
early  date,  paid  them  a  visit.  He  told 
Adolphe,  who  was  overjoyed  to  see  him, 
about  the  poor  convict  who  bore  the  name 
of  Pierre  Belleau.  The,  youth  listened  with 
keen  and  painful  interest,  and  ii  was  soon 
established,  wHhout  a  doubt,  that  this 
French  convict  was  the  long-lost  father, 
who  was  now  bat  little  more  than  a  name 
to  Adolphe  and  his  sister. 

"He  Is  now  in  this  city.  You  will  go  to 
see  him,  will  you  not?"  asked  Wllhelm, 
anxiously. 

Adolphe's  face  flushed  hotly.  "  Monsieur 
Stelnhoff,"  he  said,  at  length,  "it  is  not 
pleasant  to  me  to  meet  a  convict  fader. 
Heem  never  true  fader,  or  heem  not  leave 
us  so.  We  cannot  now  have  de  right  affec- 
tion for  heem." 

"Adolphe,"  said  Wllhelm  earnestly,  ".can 
you  not  forgive  him?" 
The  youth  was  silent. 
"  If  you  knew  that  he  was  alone,  suffer- 
ing, dying,  longing  for  the  sight  of  the  chil- 
dren he  has^wronged,  would  you  not  go  to 
him,  no  matter  under  what  circumstances 
he  might  be  placed?" 
The  lips  of  the  French  youth  trembled. 


M 

sa 
loi 
on 
H 

yo 


A  STAB    IN  A  FBI  SON. 


91 


"It  Is  no  pleasant  task  you  bring  to  me, 
Monsieur  Steinhofif,"  he  said. 

"I  know  It,  Adolphe.  But  it  is  for  his 
sake  I  have  told  you.  He  is  weary  with 
Jonjing  for  the  consciousness  that  even  one 
on  1  ills  great  earth  cares  a  little  for  him. 
He  cannot  live  very  long.  Will  you  not,  by 
your  presence,  bring  to  him  one  little  ray 
of  gladness  ere  he  goes?  He  has  sinned, 
but  he  has  repented,  with  a  repentance  that 
has  eaten  his  life  out." 

Adolphe  sat  for  a  moment  gazing  down 
at  the  floor.  Then  he  looked  up  resolutely. 
"  I  will  go,"  he  said. 

Ere  another  hour  had  gone  two  muflfled 
forms  passed  out  of  the  flat,  and  bent  their 
steps  toward  the  little  boarding-house  in 
^hlch  Pierre  Belleau  lay  upon  a  dingy  sofa, 
coughing  feebly.  He  had  caught  cold  on 
the  train  and  was  hot  and  feverish.  He 
wondered  if  he  would  die  soon,  and,  If  not, 
how  he  should  manage  to  keep  the  life  in  his 
frail  body.  Would  any  one  give  him  work? 
Would  he  be  able  to  do  It  if  they  did?  It 
would  be  better  if  he  could  die  soon.  In  all 
the  great,  dreary  world  there  was  not  one 
to  care  very  much. 

He  heard  a  knock  at  the  little  hall  door. 
Then  the  boarding  -  house  mistress  went 
through  and  opened  It.  Some  one  said,  "  Is 
Monsieur  Belleau  here?"  Then  the  door  of 
the  room  In  which  he  lay  was  thrown  open. 
A  handsome  youth  and  a  dark -eyed 
girl  came  In,  and  stopped  hesitatingly  before 
the  worn  figure  on  the  sofa. 

Pierre  looked  again.  Could  these  be  — 
yes,  that  was  the  very  face  of  the  pretty 
French  girl  he  had  wedded  In  the  little 
church  near  Quebec  —  her  face,  and  yet  not 
hers.  He  sat  up,  and  his  face  was  trans- 
formed. 

"  My  children!"  he  said,  then  bowed  his 
head  upon  theirs,  for  with  a  sudden  Impulse 
they  had  dropped  to  their  knees  at  his  feet. 

"  I  have  now  seen  you.  I  can  die,"  he 
said.  In  the  quick,  melodious  language  of  his 
childhood.    And  now  It  seemed  that  he  had 


gone  back  to  the  Innocence  of  his  youth 
again,  in  these,  his  children. 

"  But  no,"  said  Adolphe,  speaking  In  the 
same  dialect,  which  fell  like  music  on  his 
father's  ears,  "you  will  come  home  to  us, 
and  be  our  father  once  more." 

'  But  you  do  not  know  all?" 

"  Yes,  we  know  all." 

Pierre's  eyes  lighted  up  with  unutterable 
Joy.  "  Heaven,  too,  must  forgive,"  he  mur- 
mured, "  since  the  wronged  human  children 
have  forgiven." 

Then  Adolphe  went  out  and  brought 
back  a  hack  to  the  door.  And  the  convict, 
leaning  upon  his  daughter*s  arm,  entered  It 
At  the  flat  he  was  taken  iuto  the  best 
room  and  pbced  In  the  best  chair.  He  sal 
before  the  grate,  and  above  him  was  the  sad, 
sweet  face  of  the  angel  whom  Agnes  had 
painted.  He  looked  at  it,  and  an  expression 
of  pain  payf'ed  '»ver  his  face. 

"  Ah,"  he  murmured  to  himself,  "  It  Is  the 
little  mother's  face,  as  It  might  be  in 
heaven,  but  too  sad,  too  sad!  If  she  had 
been  able  to  see  my  wickedness  she  aiight 
have  looked  like  that.  No,  no!  the  pain  was 
spared  her.  It  Is  too  sad.  My  brushes,  my 
brushes!" 

The  quick  ear  of  his  daughter  heard 
his  words.  She  had  told  him  of  the  death 
of  her  mother,  and  he  had  wept.  Quietly 
she  slipped  from  the  room  and  brought  him 
her  palette  and  her  brushes. 

Without  seeming  to  notice  her,  he  took 
them  from  her  hand.  He  quickly  mixed  the 
paiL-  on  the  board,  then  began  to  use  the 
brushes  on  the  face.  Agnes  watched  him 
with  intense  interest.  With  a  few  delicate 
strokes  he  changed  the  mouth,  the  eyes. 
The  sadness  disappeared  from  the  lips,  a 
radiant  smile  came  into  the  eyes.  The 
mother  seemed  to  beam  with  angel  happi- 
ness upon  the  reunited  family. 

Pierre  stepped  back  and  regarded  his 
work.    "Aye.  my  children!"  he  said. 

They  stepped  beside  him,  one  on  either 
side,  and  he  placed  his  arms  about  them,  and 


92 


A   STAB    IN  A   PBISON. 


they  looked  at  the  face,  and  the  face  smiled 
down  upon  them. 

Upon  the  following  day  Adolphe  went  to 
see  Wllhelm  Steinhoff. 

"  Monsieur  Steinhoff."  he  seid,  "  you  say 
you  are  to  me  indebted  for  help  get  you  free. 
By  me  has  de  debt  now  to  be  paid.  I  t'ank 
you  for  being  de  friend  to  my  poor  fader, 
and  because  you  give  heera  back  to  us.  For 
ten  t'ousan'  dollar  would  I  not  have  seen 
heem  never!"  ;, 

And  Wllhelm  smiled  and  was  content. 


CHAPTER    XXV.    ^  ,   •; 

y^^       A  SCENE  OF  PEACE. 

IS  five  years  later. 
Autumn  has  again 
fallen  upon  the  capital. 
The  birds,  gathering  In 
the  trees,  are  plain- 
tively whistling  their 
last  farewell.  Upon 
the  mountains  across 
the  river  the  haze  lies 
sleepily,  like  a  thin 
veil  of  blue,  drawn 
across  the  blushing  beauties  of  the  crimson- 
ing forest,  and  down  the  broad  valley  of  th) 
Ottawa  the  drowsy  breeze  comes,  tardily, 
like  a  belated  guest.  All  nature  is  at  rest. 
And  peaceful  indeed  seems  the  silent  city 
on  the  hill,  where  a  few  late  flowers  still 
bloom  at  the  marble  doors,  and  the  yellow 
leaves  come  fluttering  -lowly  down  upon 
palaces  which  never  echo  to  the  sound  of 
careless  laughter  or  the  tread  of  Irreverent 
feet. 

The  cemetery  gate  opens  and  two  women 
enter,  one  bearing  o  bouquet  of  choicest 
flowers.  The  other,  and  the  older,  woman 
wears  a  long,  loose  garment  of  black,  and 
a  black  veil  thrown  back  from  the  face 
repeals    a    countenance    still    placid    and 


sweet.  The  women  are  Dorothy  and  Sister 
Dell. 

Slowly  they  advance,  pausing  here  and 
there  to  look  down  upon  the  mound  which 
marks  the  resting-place  of  some  friend  of 
former  days.  Sister  Dell  has  been  faithfully 
laboring  in  a  distant  city  for  yuars,  and, 
amid  the  silent  streets  of  the  cemetery,  sur- 
prises meet  her  on  every  hand. 

Presently  Dorothy  pauses  before  a  pure, 
white  marble  shaft,  whose  glittering  surface 
Is  unbroken  by  device  or  sculpture.  It  is  the 
tomb  of  the  gentle  colporteur,  the  saint- 
like, loving  chaplain,  Francis  Hare.  Upon 
the  stone  is  written  the  simple  inscription: 

"Traveling  alone  down  the  pathway  of  life, 
he  brightened  the  way  for  others." 

Dorothy  tells  Sister  Dell  the  story  of  his 
life  and  of  his  relationship  to  Wllhelm 
Steinhoff.  ,.^-  ^r 

"  By  the  way,"  she  adds,  "  our  Mh  Stein- 
hoff ha3  gone  to  take  his  place  as  chaplain. 
His  wife  has  written  to  me  that  some  of 
the  men  who  were  there  when  he  served 
his  terrible  imprisonment  are  there  still, 
and  that  they  are  overjoyed  to  meet  him  In 
his  new  capacity.  I  am  sure  he  will  do  a 
great  work  among  them,  for  his  personal 
magnetism  is  something  wonderful.  And 
yet  it  Is  not  wonderful,  either  when  one 
considers  the  great  love  and  sympathy  hie 
has  for  every  human  being." 

"And  his  wife— what  of  her?"  Sister 
Dell  is  more  interested  In  the  welfare  of  the 
fair  girl  whom  she  once  nursed  back  to  life 
and  health. 

"Gertrude?  Oh,  she  Is  very  well.  You 
should  see  how  rosy  her  cheeks  are!  She  is 
just  as  happy  as  can  be,  and  she  and  her 
husband  positively  adore  each  other." 

"  We  shall  go  together  to^ay  them  a  visit 
some  day,  Dorrie,"  '  ' 

Dorothy  was  arranging  some  pure  white 
lilies  about  the  glistening  marble.  She  arose 
and  drew  her  friend's  arm  within  her  own. 


T 


A   STAB   IN  A   FBI  SON. 


93 


"Assuredly,"  she  said.  "We  were  with 
Gertrude  in  her  trouble  — we  will  rejoice 
with  h«r  in  her  joy.  I  thinli  you  will  lilie 
her  husband  very  much." 

She  paused,  then  added  in  a  lower  tone, 
"In  some  ways  he  re-  "  '  .  . 
minds  me  very  much 
of— of  Keith.  He  never 
tries  to  be  anything 
famous  or  great  him- 
self, though  with  his 
abilities  he  might  be  as 
famous  as  he  chose. 
He  just  wants  to  be 
helpful,  and  he  chooses 
to  devote  his  life  to 
those  who  arcr^  despised 
and  neglected  by 
others." 

She  valked  on,  draw- 
ing lier  friend  with  her, 
and  instinctively  Sister 
Dell  liuew  whither  they 
were  now  going. 

They  stopped  before 
a  stately,  pillared 
tomb,  the  tomb  of  Keith 
Cameron.  Dorothy 
knelt,  as  though  upon 
sacred  ground,  and  her 
face  was  very  grave, 
while  in  the  deep  eyes 
shone  that  look  which 
seemed  to  reach  into 
the  very  portals  of 
heaven.  The  red  sun- 
set light  shone  up  in  the 
western  sky  and  rested 
upon  her  earnest  face. 
Her  lips  moved.  She 
arose  and  began  to 
twine,  with  loving  fingers,  the  delicate  blos- 
soms about  the  cold,  white  pillars.  The 
silence  was  that  of  a  great  cathedral,  and 
to  these-  two  women  it  seemed  that  they 
were  indeed  within  the  cloistere  of  a  mighty 
temple,  wherein  the  earth  was  the  footstool 


of  the  Lord,  and  the  clouds  above  the  cur- 
tains of  his  chamber. 

•  Leaning  upon  the  railing  of  the  tomb. 
Sister  Dell  read  the  words  placed  there  in 
recognition  of  the  loving  life,  ever  followed 


Slowly  they  advanced,  pausing  here  and  there.— See  page  92. 


in  the  footsteps  of  Him  who  was,  and  always 
is.  Love. 

"Jesus  saith  to  Simon  Peter,  Simon,  sou 
of  .Tonas,  lovpst  thou  me  more  than  these?  He 
saith  unto  him,  Yea,  Lord,  thou  knowest  thft  '' 
love  thee.    He  saith  uato  him,  Feed  my  lambs. 


mffmmm'nmfw 


-  94 


A  STAB   IN  A  PRISON. 


**  He  saith  to  him  again  the  second  time, 
Simon,  son  of  Jonas,  lovest  thou  me?  He 
saith  unto  him,  Yea,  Lord,  thou  knowest  that 
I  love  thee.  He  saith  unto  him,  Feed  my 
sheep. 

"  He  sa^th  unto  him  the  third  time,  Simon, 


son  of  Jonas,  lovest  thou  me?  Peter  was 
grieved  because  he  said  unto  him  the  third 
time,  Lovest  thou  me?  And  he  said  unto  him, 
Lord,  thou  Itnowest  all  things;  thou  knowest 
that  I  love  thee.  Jesus  saith  unto  him,  Feed 
my  sheep." 


THE    END. 


T^TTS^ 


ipp 


'ter  was 
he  third 
nto  him, 
knowest 
m,  Feed 


A  Swiss  Hero. 


By  anna   may   WILSON. 


-*^^.  >  T  the  town  of  Stanz,  in 
Switzerland,  stands 
a  fine  monummt. 
Its  chief  figure  rep- 
resents a  prostrate 
warrior,  whose  arm? 
are  clasped  about  a 
bunch  of  lances. 
Over  his  body  is 
rushing  another 
warrioj,  with  mace 
uplifted,  and  eager  glance  bent  on  before. 

The  legend  attached  to  this  voices  a  senti- 
ment which  could  receive  birth  only  amid  a 
liberty-loving  people,  and  which  illustrates 
well  the  fact  that  almost  every  forward 
movement,  every  stroke  for  freedom,  has 
been  made  over  the  sacrificed  body  or 
strength  of  some  brave  one  who  gave  him- 
self that  the  oppressed  might  arise*. 

The  legend  is  as  follows:  During  the 
early  days  of  Switzerland,  while  the  greater 
part  of  it  was  still  under  the  rule  and  rod 
of  Austria,  the  peasantry  of  the  mountain- 
land  WPS  grievously  burdened  by  the  nobles, 
who  thought  themselves  very  powerful  be- 
cause they  were  upheld  in  their  wiclied 
deeds  by  the  Duke  of  Austria.  Taxation  be- 
came heavier  and  heavier,  until  at  last 
grievous  tolls  were  imposed  on  every  per- 
son leaving  or  entering  the  district  of 
Lucerne.  The  people  bore  it  as  long  as  they 
could,  then,  one  day.  a  troop  of  Lucerners 
galloped  to  the  castle  of  Rothenberg,  at 
which  toll  was  established,  and  razed  it  to 
the  ground. 

News  of  the  affair  reached  Duke  Leopold 
of  Austria.  He  at  once  determined  to  pun- 
ish the  mountaineers,  and  to  force  them  to 
bow  to  his  will.  With  a  great  army  of 
cuirassed  and  helmeted  men,  finely  mounted 


on  trained  war-horses,  he  set  out  for 
Lucerne.  At  Sempach,  he  perceived  his  way 
blocked  by  the  peas  utry,  who  were  drawn 
up,  in  a  wedge-shaped  body,  at  the  top  of  a 
hill. 

He  at  once  called  a  halt.  It  was  decided 
that  the  horses  would  be  of  little  use  in 
this  hill-fighting,  so  the  men  were  ordered 
to  dismount,  and  leave  their  chargers  in  care 
of  the  servants.  Then,  forming  in  solid  lines 
at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  they  pressed  upward 
like  a  moving  wall  of  steel.  The  day  was 
hot.  The  sun  was  high  in  the  heavens,  and 
the  light  flashed  on  lance,  and  helmet,  and 
fluttering  pennon.  The  men  above,  looking 
upon  the  beautiful  yet  terrible  sight,  fell 
upon  their  knees  and  prayed. 

They,  poor  peasants,  wore,  instead  of 
linked  coats  of  maii,  but  homespun  jackets 
of  wool.  Many  were  bareheaded.  Moreover 
they  were  armed  but  with  short  clubs, 
maces  and  battle-axes,  weapons  which  might 
prove  almost  utterly  useless  when  opposed 
to  the  long  lances,  now  leveled  In.  close, 
moving  lines,  almost  at  the  brow  of  the 
hill. 

As  the  Austrlans  came  near,  they  burst 
into  a  laugh  of  derision.  But  their  laughter 
only  acted  as  a  fresh  incentive  to  the  spirits 
of  the  peasantry.  The  opposing  forces 
closed.  Sixty  of  the  hill-men  fell,  ere  yet 
a  single  Austrian*  had  been  killed.  The 
short  weapons  were  utterly  incapable  of 
reaching  the  foe  across  the  barrier  of 
lances.  The  Swiss  began  to  waver.  They 
were  on  the  verge  of  falling  back  before  the 
enemy. 

"  I  will  open  a  way  for  you,"  exclaimed 
brave  Arnold  von  Winkelried  In  thunder 
{ones.  "  Ye  men  of  the  hills,  take  care  of 
my  wife  and  child!" 


» 


Y* 


I 


96 


A   8WI88  HEBO. 


Forward  rushed  the  brave  soldier,  and, 
gathering  in  his  mighty  arms  as  many  of 
the  lances  as  he  could  reach,  he  threw  him- 
self upon  them,  and  bore  them  to  the 
ground.  " 

Across  his  body  rushed  the  brave  moun- 
iaineers.  A  path  had  been  opened,  and,  ere 
the  Austrians  could  recover  from  their  sur- 
prise, the  short  maces  and  battle-axes  were 
among  them.  The  conflict  was  short  and 
decisive.  The  enemy,  seized  by  a  panic, 
fled  down  the  hill,  Intending  to  mount  their 


friendly  noblemen  living  In  the  vicinity. 
As  n'ght  fell,  and  the  last  pink  flush  of  the 
setting  sun  stole  u^  the  western  heavens, 
thene  weary  men,  looking  from  the  turret 
windows,  saw  fires  gleaming  along  the  dark 
mountain-sides,  and  from  the  tops  of  acces- 
sible peaks.  Fiercely  they  scowled,  but 
little  recked  the  brave  mountaineers,  who 
had  returned  to  their  humble  homos  and 
were  now  thus  signaling  the  Joyful  news  of 
victory  to  the  more  remote  valleys  of  the 
Schwesch.    Their  Independence  waS  not  yet 


horses  and  ride  away.    But  no  horse  was     wholly  won,  but  they  were  well  pleased  that 


to  be  seen;  for  the  servants,  becoming 
alarmed,  had  already  gone  with  them,  deem- 
ing their  own  lives  of  more  value  than  their 
masters'! 

The  Austrians,  whose  heavy  armor  now 
hindered  them  in  their  flight,  became  scat- 
tered amid  the  fastnesses  of  the  mountains. 
A  few  of  them  Avandered  to  the  castles  of 


they  had  dealt  such  a  blow  to  their  oppres- 
sors as  would  cause  their  rights  to  be  re- 
spected more  in  future,  and  their  free  and 
hardy  spirits  looked  forth  to  a  day  when 
Switzerland  might  be,  what  she  is  now,  a 
brave  little  land,  renowned,  among  all  the 
empires  cf  Europe,  for  her  thrift,  her  Indus- 
try, and  the  freedom  of  her  people. 


MIW  C  JRCRORN 


I 


'-.-^  xMs^mumtK  tmm'i* 


RflLPK  CliCHORN 


lie    vicinity, 
flush  of  the 
rn   heavens, 
I  the  turret 
ng  the  dai'k 
ps  of  acccs- 
owled,    but 
Ineers,   who 
homos  and 
ful  news  of 
leys  of  the 
vaS  not  yet 
leased  that 
lelr  oppres- 
»  to  be  re- 
r  free  and 
day   when 
Is  now,  a 
ng  all  the 
her  Indus- 
le. 


Tub  Nbw  Saiiuatu  Libkakv— (  Contlnoed  from  Hecond  pa^e  cover. 


Ruby;  or,  A  Heart  of  Gold 

By  a.   LIX.A  RILBT. 

ThU  story  is  of  Southern  life,  and  the  author  has 
portrayed  the  different  characters  in  a  elf  ver  way  that 
will  charm  the  reader,  while  all  will  love  "  Ruby,"  the 
little  lad  who  gives  the  book  its  name,  and  who  brings 
smiles  one  moment  and  tears  the  next. 

The  Awakening  of  Kohath  Slioane 

Bt  Julia  MacNaib  Wright. 

This  is  one  of  the  most  intensely  interesting,  pleasing;, 
and  helpful  stories  for  young  people  ever  publlshfd. 
and  Avill  be  gladly  welcomed.  Ii  v.ill  thrill  the  heart  of 
the  young  person  who  reads  it  as  few  stories  have  the 
power  to  do. 

Paula  Clyde; 

OR.  HOW  TlIK  BUTTONED  HOOTS  MAISrHEI). 

By  Kate  W.  HamOiTON. 
This  story  lells  of  a  bright  young  girl  and  her  praise- 
worthy resolution.    The  account  of  her  failures  and 
victories  is  interesting  and  helpful  and  one  closes  the 
book  with  regret. 


In  League  With  the  Powerful 

B"^    ^UGBNIA    D.    BIGBAJU. 

In  this  book  the  author  tells  a  story  concerning  the 
fate  of  a  little  babe  separated  by  shipwreck  from  Its 
parents.  God's  care  over  this  child,  the  piirents'  tru.st, 
and  the  blessings  which  come  to  many  among  whom 
the  chUd  is  thrown,  make  a  beautiful  unfolding. 

Beside  the  Bonnie  Brier  Bush 

■  ■  By  Ian  MacLabbn. 

This  edition  has  been  prepared  for  those  who  cannot 
readily  understand  the  Scotch  dialecu  All  difficult 
words  have  been  translated,  and  the  charm  of  Maclaren's 
most  noted  produjtion  thus  unlocked  to  many  who 
migat  otuerwise  not  attempt  a  reading. 

The  Lamplighter 

By  Mahia  S.  cumminos. 

This  famous  book  has  for  many  years  been  popular 
with  all  classes  of  readers.  This  edition  is  abridf^ed 
and  rewritten,  thus  adapting  It  to  the  wants  of  modern 
readers,  at  the  same  time  preserving  the  Interest  and 
continuity  of  the  narrative. 


The   Pillar  of  Fire 

By  RBV.  J.   H.   INGRAHAM. 

This  is  a  gem  among  religious  story  books,  and  for 
many  years  has  had  a  wide  reputation.  We  have  hud 
it  revised  and  partly  rewritten  to  correspond  with  latest 
research,  and  while  much  of  the  descriptive  matter  has 
been  omitted,  all  of  the  story  has  b«H-n  retaiaed. 


Marti; 


A   STOKY   OK  THE    fl  «»AN   WAR. 

By  Annib  Makia  Barnbs. 

This  timely  book  by  the  author  of  •'  Chonita,"  will  be 
eagerly  welcomed  by  thousands  of  young  people  who 
feel  an  Interest  in  the  Incidents  of  the  late  war  between 
the  United  States  and  Spain. 

The  Throne  of  David. 

By   RBY.  J.  H.  INGBAHAM. 

This  is  by  many  considered  the  best  work  ot  the  great 
mind  which  originated  "The  Prince  of  the  Il'ouse  of 
David"  and  'Tne  Pillar  of  Fire."  to  the  furm  pre- 
sented herewith,  its  popularity  will  be  renewed,  as  It 
has  been  thoroughly  revised  and  partly  rewritr,en. 


TI; 


A  STORY  OP  SAN  l-ftANriSCO'S  CHINATOWN. 
By  Maky  E.  Bamfobd. 

This  unique  and  Interesting  story  will  attrnct  great 
attention.  Mrs.  Bamford  has  been  a  close  observer  of 
the  characteristics  of  (Chinatown's  people.  The  book  is 
illustrated  with  a  large  number  of  engravings. 


In  His  Steps. 

By  Rev.  Cuaui.es  M.  Shbluon. 

An  authorized  edition  of  this  world- fi«r-ouf>  book, 
and  the  finost  and  cheapest  yet  issued.  The  work 
here  offered  has  been  thoroughly  revised  to  date,  and 
is  beautifully  illustrated  with  a  number  of  choice  and 
specially  designed  engravings.  Specially  adapit<d  for 
presentation. 

The  Transformation  of  Job. 

By  Fbbdbbick  Vining  firhbb. 

The  author  of  this  most  interesting  story  has  narrated 
the  trials  and  adventures  of  ai.  orphan  boy  among  the 
miners  of  California,  his  temptations  and  transforma- 
tion. The  pictures  of  Western  life  are  vividly  diuwu, 
and  the  interest  of  the  reader  is  held  to  the  end. 


M. 


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